


Static Fracture

by inkyrobotsparks



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Canon, implied PTSD, supportive Hak, working on a relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:55:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23505565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkyrobotsparks/pseuds/inkyrobotsparks
Summary: It's been almost a year, and the snow is returning. Connor never really talked about what happened the night of the revolution. But Hank does remember his apprehensive - almost visceral - response to heavy snowfall. He hadn't asked then, but things had been different between them still. Tentative. It didn't feel right. So he hadn't pried, but now he wishes he had, because he very much wants to understand.Connor just shakes himself off though, eyes sliding shut and voice dropping lower. "I'm scared of the person I almost was. I hurt people. Marcus. You. I almost didn't make it out.""You're here now," Hank says, tracing his cheekbone, his lips. "You broke free."Connor gives him a pale ghost of a smile. "It was too close a call."
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 17
Kudos: 190





	Static Fracture

**Author's Note:**

> Adapted twitter thread, finished at last! I did my best to edit it and smooth things out but the format is often a bit choppy, hopefully not too badly so.

Hank wakes up to static, voices, gunshots on his TV, blurry and poorly defined first person images. They penetrate the haze of his own dreams, cast the bedroom in eerie, pale, flickering lights, like something out of a ghost movie.

He thinks he's being haunted, just for that moment between sleep and reality. The distorted images look like something out of his own nightmares, violent and harsh, splattered darkly in blue.

He catches on to what’s going on when he realizes - fully - what he is seeing.

All of Connor’s memories are bad, and he's in at least… some of them. Connor's voice crackling over the speakers is closer than all the others, broken, full of static. The screen of his TV turns the kind of screaming, bright white that makes Hank’s eyes and head hurt, his chest feel tight, painful.

He shakes Connor awake, heart pounding, and just holds him tightly enough to make him creak from the pressure. Connor seems only half awake, but he curls into Hank’s grip, his breathing shallow and fast, fans whirring somewhere deep in his chest, trying to cool him down. His face is damp. And he’s trembling.

He manages to soothe Connor back down into shallow, blessedly dreamless sleep, and spends the next half hour curled around him, face pressed to Connor's back, trying to cry quietly enough to not wake him. There are sounds he can't get out of his head now. He's not sure what to do, and whatever the 'right' response is, though he's sure crushing Connor to his chest with completely selfish desperation isn't it.

It doesn't seem to matter. His body's taken over anyway and doesn't plan on letting Connor go, ever.

When Connor wakes properly, he's almost forgotten the nightmares. He's a little surprised to find that Hank is clinging to him so hard he can't detangle himself, and that his face is puffy and pink and his cheek tastes of salt when Connor wiggles around to kiss it. He doesn’t entirely realize those tears were for him - just thinks that Hank had one of his worse nights, feels some combination of sadness and pride because he likes being the first thing Hank had turned to when he was sad, for once. So he lets Hank hold him a little longer, basking in the familiar scent at his throat, of clean laundry and Hank’s sweat.

Hank wakes up to an empty bed, almost has a panic attack until he realizes he can smell pancakes. It takes him a good few minutes to compose himself, to breathe through the vestiges of fear and dread still clawing at him from the inside. Now that he's awake again, all he can think about is - those things he saw. Heard. There's a sharp, defined ache in his chest.

They don't talk about it that day. He wants to, but Connor's soft, sweet smile when he greets him as he comes into the kitchen tells him all he needs to know. He doesn't want to ruin his good mood, or make him relive something unpleasant that's lying buried somewhere deep. So he embraces Connor, kisses his cheek, and helps him finish cooking the pancakes.

For a few days he almost thinks he won't ever have to bring it up. Connor doesn't question why Hank is suddenly this clingy, why he insists on sleeping in a much tighter embrace (even when the weather outside gets hot), why he kisses Connor with such desperate reverence. He sleeps soundly and deeply, even though Hank does not. Hank's not sure he'll ever catch another wink, actually.

He drops off eventually, exhausted by the newfound vigilance. For two nights, things almost seem to drift back to normal.

And then Connor's nightmares come back.

Hank is sorely tempted to throw the TV, phone and radio out the goddamn window, but he doesn't want to get up, and even worse, doesn't want to shut this off in some twisted way. Connor's never, ever talked about the worse things he's been through. He shuts down at any questions, backs away from the vulnerability of explaining his trauma, the reasons for the ways he flinches from certain things, the reasons Hank sometimes finds him sitting on the bathroom floor, eyes shut tight, panting as he tries to steady himself and push back the demons haunting him. This, horribly, is the first real glimpse Hank had gotten into his past, into his mind, and he has to wonder how Connor had stayed sane. What little flickers across his screens has his gut churning with dread and sympathy and pain.

He wakes Connor again, this time waiting for him to come out of a nightmare that had a shocked, aborted gasp of pain playing on a loop over his sound system. Connor's. It's almost always Connor's.

Connor jerks as he comes out of stasis, and looks frightened, then just confused. Hank wants to squeeze him, and kiss him, and tell him that nothing will ever hurt him again. But he also can't lie to Connor, so he just moves a little closer, tries to remind Connor where he is, touching his slender wrist.

Connor sits up, rubbing his eyes owlishly. He doesn't seem to come back into himself properly until Hank sits by him, arm low around his waist. He rests his chin tiredly on his shoulder. It's support for Hank as much as Connor, but it returns him to some familiar state. He looks up at Hank, expression worn.

Hank asks him what he'd been dreaming about, even though he's more afraid of the answer than he can say. Connor just stiffens, apologizes for waking him up, and lies back down on his side.

When Hank reaches to tuck the blanket around him, he flinches slightly. "You're safe with me," Hank manages, trying not to let that sting. "I'm not gonna hurt you, okay?"

"I know," Connor bites out, eyes closed, expression too casual to be genuine. "I'm fine. Let's just sleep, alright?"

"Do you wanna talk about it?"

"No."

Hank's grateful. He's not good with words, especially like this. This feels like it matters, and he's afraid of saying the wrong thing. He's pretty sure he's hurt Connor enough for one lifetime. So he just lies down next to him and squeezes his shoulder in a way he hopes is reassuring.

The silence he gets in response doesn't feel very good. Hesitantly, he forces out the words clamoring around inside of him.

"You can always talk to me," he says, thinking about how the not talking had poisoned his marriage. He doesn't want this to happen to them. "If you need anything -"

"Just - I'm fine, Hank. Really."

It hurts to recognize the lie, one he'd told just as often, to himself and to people who cared about him. Connor says it with the same tight-lipped stubbornness, and Hank thinks he can hear the thread of a familiar pain underneath.

"Okay," he whispers. He's not sure what else there is for him to say. Lord knows none of it would’ve worked on him back in the day, none of it _had_ worked when he and Jen have been fighting.

So he just squeezes Connor's shoulder again and closes his eyes. Maybe in the morning things will be clearer. They can talk in the light of day, in the safety of sunlight, without an echo of Connor's pain quite this close. He falls asleep, into his own restless dreams.

He doesn't remember them when he wakes.

Connor is home, and he's quiet.

They don't talk about it. Hank tries, but the words stick again. He just wants Connor to feel safe, to open up to him the same way Hank had, the way he could. But when the morning comes and goes in silence, and the day passes with the same cool, uneventful quiet, he starts to consider the possibility that the trust, the deep comfort he feels around Connor, is not entirely reciprocated.

And that... That gives him a lot to think about. It's hard not to take it personally, even though he knows, he understands why.

Connor was not built for trust, and Hank - they didn't start this from the best of places. They managed to eke out something together, but it still feels fragile, built on companionship and need more than anything. He wants that to change, wants this to be a fortress, solace for Connor, but - the getting there, that’s the problem.

He wonders whether Connor thinks about that as much as Hank does, sometimes. He remembers all too vividly the way he’d treated Connor when they first met.

With the distant way Connor's been acting, he half expects to be left alone in bed for the night. But to his surprise, and a pleasure he tries to squash, Connor crawls under the sheets next to him as always. His lashes are low, but he's facing Hank at least. Hank reaches out to stroke his hair, watches his eyes flutter entirely shut. He wants Connor to feel safe, so he keeps touching him as he drifts off, a gentle reassurance of his presence. Offering what little comfort Connor is willing to accept.

Static crackles softly though the bedroom. Hank's not sure what he expects that night, and he stiffens instinctively in fear of it, but for a long time, there's nothing overt, nothing terrifying. The dreams don't intrude, or at least, they're not strong enough to break whatever was in place around Connor's mind before. He's not sure if that's a relief or not.

He thinks not.

It's hours before he lets his own eyes close. He keeps jerking awake to either sharper crackles coming out of various speakers, or a silence that's somehow worse. His hand finds Connor's fingers under the sheets.

A gunshot rings out, bright and loud in the soft silence of their bedroom, and Connor flinches, then comes awake with shocking abruptness, clawing at the sheets and struggling for purchase, like he's afraid of falling. Hank grabs him, trying to calm his flailing, shushing.

Connor comes back to him eventually, but the few minutes in which he’s clearly lost, eyes wild, are some of the longest Hank has had to endure.

He curls around Connor like a pretzel, stroking his side and trying to keep his own breathing steady and soothing for Connor to match, but it's not exactly easy when it keeps catching in his chest.

"I'm okay, Hank," Connor whispers hoarsely into his hair, and Hank can't really hold back the rough sound of denial that escapes him.

And suddenly Connor is the one trying to soothe him, because Hank is maybe clinging a little harder than he meant to. It's not right. Hank needs to be his rock right now, not the other way around. Problem is, lately it's been Connor that made him feel any kind of strong. Connor who shoved and kicked his way into Hank's life and somehow brought sunlight with him. And Hank can't lose him. He just can't.

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," he says, the words rough, spilling from him with no grace or pretense. "But I'm here for you, Connor. I'm just - fuck, I'm shit at this, but I'm here. I'm not going anywhere, and if you need me -"

Connor, thank God, nuzzles closer to him. He doesn't speak, but his arms tighten around Hank, and although his artificial breathing calms once again into something resembling 'normal,' he still shivers occasionally, like he's either cold or remembering things he doesn't want to.

"I'm okay, Hank," he says. Hank briefly wants to be frustrated, but then the tone of his voice really hits him, the almost-question in it.

"Yeah, baby," Hank says, kissing his forehead. "You're alright. You're right here. You're safe. I'm never letting you go."

Connor squeezes him harder. Hank rubs his back up and down, then turns slightly to whistle for Sumo. Thankfully, the giant goof is still awake, and pads into the bedroom. He needs little invitation to jump into the bed and curl up behind Connor, but once he’s there, he’s there to stay.

Connor giggles softly when Sumo licks his ear, reaches up with easy affection to scratch his neck behind his collar. Hank relaxes slightly. Even more so when Connor's fingers curl into his shirt and stay there, close but no longer clutching desperately.

"Hey, Hank?" Connor whispers when Hank's almost asleep somehow.

"Mhm?"

"I'm not trying to shut you out. I want - I want to talk, I just - I can't - think about it yet."

"I know," Hank says, because he does. "I know, my love. There's time."

"Hank."

Hank cracks his eyes open. "Say that again?"

Hank blinks. "Which bit?"

He swears that if Connor could flush, he would. He ducks his head just so, gaze flicking away, a gesture he can only call bashful.

"Never mind."

Hank smiles. Connor's actually just too fucking cute. "If you say so."

But just as Connor sighs - a little wistfully - and relaxes again, Hank strokes his cheekbone and says, "Goodnight, love."

The rest of the night, Connor seems to sleep just fine.

It doesn't last, of course. Over the next few nights, the nightmares come and go.

Hank would keep watch all night long if he could, but his very human body can't handle that for extended periods of time. He passes out despite himself, sometimes at inopportune moments when he stays up to meet the sunrise. Connor's nightmares haunt Hank one way or another, in his own dreams, or when he's awake but Connor's napping. The static hiss sets him on edge, but he can't always wake him then, because sometimes it fades to nothing and Connor catches precious, peaceful sleep.

They still don't talk about it. Connor evidently tries sometimes, but can't quite force the words out, and Hank doesn't want to press before he's ready. He knows that won’t help, that Connor has to decide for himself when he wants to come to Hank.

He starts sleeping less. Does a lot of reading well into the late night hours, or watches movies, or plays with Sumo, always looking restless and a little on edge. Hank sometimes naps when he's awake. But sometimes Connor's exhaustion sneaks up on him then anyway, and Hank wakes to a slideshow of horror on his TV. He usually trips his way to the bedroom as quickly as he can, heart aching and chest tight. But one afternoon, he glances at the screen, and sees himself.

He sits up, rubbing his face groggily, and Connor's voice is there, soft but clear.

_"I'm whatever you want me to be, Lieutenant."_

Hank pales as the picture fuzzes. He can't get his limbs to move. He - barely remembers that night. He does remember drinking though. And the snow settling in Connor's hair. And his own hands shaking, and the cold metal of the trigger under his finger. It's a memory he tried to bury deep. It had almost worked. It's different like this though. Seeing the sneer on his own features, and staring down the barrel of his gun.

He'd done that. Mere weeks after his activation, and before he got to experience anything even resembling kindness. And now it's a memory they both have to live with.

The images on the TV blur and jump oddly, too fast to catch every frame, although Hank has no doubt Connor is processing every single one. First the gun lowers. Then Hank turns. Then he's there again, closer, but angry.

Then a flash, and there's nothing but sky and snow. Hank drops his face into his hands, misses the scene shifting again, the snow thickening, the gun reappearing and disappearing, the flickers of things that were and weren't. He swipes furiously at his eyes, catches a glimpse of his own face close, to close, and Connor backing up.

He wrenches his eyes away and speedwalks for the bedroom. Connor's face is oddly still, brow only a little furrowed. He gasps when Hank shakes him awake, sits up abruptly, cupping Hank’s face between his warm, very gentle hands.

Hank bows his head and rests it on Connor's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he chokes out. "I'm so sorry."

"Hank -- shh, it's okay. Wh'happened?"

Hank squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn't have the strength to explain, not really. He rubs his face against the curve of Connor's neck and selfishly tries to absorb his warmth. "I'm sorry," he says again, tiredly, because he feels like he has so little energy left. He's sleep deprived and exhausted and whatever he's feeling, Connor must have it a thousand times worse.

"Don't be sorry," Connor mutters, kissing his sweaty temple. "Jus' come to bed."

Hank should really protest. But Connor's grip on him is impossible to escape, and he gets dragged down like a sailor into the depths of the ocean before he even knows what's happening. Connor's hands in his hair are soothing. His voice is low, and whispers reassuring things.

By the time Hank pulls himself together, Connor is tucked against his chest, deeply asleep once again. If he's dreaming, it's of nothing more than the occasional bursts of indecipherable static. Hank burrows under the blankets and lets himself nod off. Just for a little while.

In the morning, he's surprised to find that Connor is awake but not up, still curled up in Hank's arms. It's not a very common occurrence. Connor tends to either sleep in until late or rise with the sun, but either way he never indulges in just lying in bed, taking his time in rising slowly, seeing little point in inactivity. The second his eyes open is the second usually immediately before his feet hit the floor, but this time he's on his side, sheets rumpled around him, his face soft as he stares at Hank.

When Hank touches his cheek, he sighs and closes his eyes, his mouth curving into a smile. It's a small one, but Hank will take it. He loves every single smile of Connor's, he's not picky.

The dawn is just graying out the outside. Still too early to really be up. He thinks maybe that's good though. He's missed just cuddling Connor, because lately it's all been… well, all been tainted somehow, tinged with his fear of Connor's dreams and his pain, colored with a tension that has no place between them.

He curls his arm tighter around Connor's middle and gives him a brief kiss.

Connor seizes the opportunity with shocking enthusiasm. And with the spark that comes with Connor's single-minded search for more, he's reminded that another thing they'd lost lately was - well, this. Hank is usually too tired and stressed lately. Connor is too, and somewhere amidst the worry, they'd lost an intimacy that felt vital.

"Morning," Hank mumbles, quiet against Connor's soft, parted lips.

"So it is," Connor says, kissing him, then his jaw, his neck, his fingers skimming up under Hank's shirt to touch his sides and his belly, to run through the hair on his body.

Connor's always been handsy. Contact is where he finds reassurance, so Hank learned quickly not to deny him the comfort of it, even if he'd been a little shy to offer his body up for scrutiny at first.

It didn't take long to figure out that Connor didn't see Hank's flaws the way Hank saw them at all. And even though it still filled Hank with a thread of apprehension sometimes, Connor's very obvious care and reverence had a tendency to wash away his doubts and replace them with a warm glow, the strength of which never failed to surprise him. It didn't feel... allowed.

This didn't either. Not with how nice, and how peaceful it felt in the stolen moment before daytime fully intruded.

Connor's already so close, and he's not shy about trying to get closer, tugging at Hank's clothes like they annoy him. It's graceless and awkward, but lovely. Hank helps out. He rolls on top of Connor and yanks his own shirt over his head, then gently peels Connor out of the flannel he'd borrowed. And then kisses him again, just for good measure, sighing when Connor makes a muffled sound and wraps his arms around him. His hands are everywhere, but there's nothing urgent about it, nothing but soft appreciation in his touch. Hank closes his eyes and ends up nuzzling closer, tugging a slender leg to wrap around his hip while Connor nips at his throat. And it still just feels - good, and warm.

And then the alarm makes them both jump, blaring like a goddamn siren.

Hank groans and flails to turn it off, and almost falls off the bed. Connor catches him with a light laugh and pulls him back from the edge, but Hank's phone leaps to the floor off the edge of the nightstand. The siren continues to blare, slightly more muffled than before.

Hank stares up at the ceiling. He rubs his face. He's not sure why, but he sort of feels like crying.

"I've got it," Connor mutters, and reaches down to flip it off with pinpoint accuracy. He doesn't even look. The silence is first a relief, but then immediately far too loud. Last night fully intrudes again, and Hank forgets whatever warm feeling was in his chest a second ago.

He looks over at Connor. He's ruffled from sleep, and his face is slack, still a bit tired. "We should take the day off," Hank says quietly. "Call in sick."

Connor gives him a look. _That_ look. "Do you even have any sick days left?"

"Fine. I retire. Let's just go back to sleep."

Connor bends over him, presses a hand to the center of his chest. It feels sweet, or it would, if his lips didn't immediately quirk into an infuriating little grin. "Your heart rate is only slightly elevated. Your temperature is normal." He leans in, presses a kiss to Hank's lips and lingers there, tasting, and Hank almost forgets why. "No sign of illness."

But he kisses Hank again anyway, just to be sure, he says.

"It's still weird when you do that," Hank grunts. But he's not really annoyed, and Connor can tell. He just rolls out of bed with another small smile.

Hank is suddenly cold, and the weight in his chest doubles. "Connor?"

"Mm."

"I might - I might actually stay home today," Hank says quietly. "I feel -" He's not actually sure what he feels. Like a drink, maybe, only he doesn't do that anymore. Or tries not to, anyway.

Connor's brow furrows in concern. Hank sighs, and turns away. He shouldn't do this, should know better than to think this works, but the thought of getting out of bed and facing work and Fowler and Reed and paperwork is suddenly overwhelming. He's just so tired, and his back hurts, and -

_Excuses_, some unfriendly part of his brain hisses.

"Hey," Connor says gently, sitting back on the edge of the bed. Hank wants to sink into the warm understanding in his voice, even as it makes him bristle. "I've been keeping you up. Maybe... Maybe a day off would do us both good."

Hank looks over at him and raises an eyebrow. He grunts. "You're gonna enable my lazy ass for once? Holy shit, hell must be frozen over."

Connor rubs the back of his neck, uncertainty in his eyes. "Maybe I'm tired, too."

Hank sits up. "Look, I didn't mean-"

"Let's just - go somewhere. It's going to be a nice day."

Hank nods carefully. Connor's never wanted to skip work before. He's not sure if it means he's doing better, growing into those tiny, selfish, human wants, learning to accept them and to do things for himself, or if it's because he's so exhausted he's at the end of his rope. It doesn't really matter, he thinks. Hank was going to throw a party the first time Connor asked him for something, and after the night they've both had, now is as good a time as any.

He calls in sick for them both. Fowler doesn't even sound infuriated, just sighs deeply - maybe reading the edge of desperation in his voice, responding to the exhaustion in it, or maybe the implication that Connor needs time off too, just as startling for him as it is for Hank.

They end up going for a walk. They take Sumo with them and go down to the river, take a stroll in the pale, gentle sunlight before the world fully wakes. They make their way to the park and sit in the shade of a weeping willow overlooking the water, arms linked. Connor is unusually clingy. He's not generally one for a lot of PDA, but he doesn't let go of Hank for a second, not even when he plays fetch with Sumo. When they rest, he sits with his cheek pressed to Hank's arm.

When they come home, he slinks away like he's ashamed. Hank has his own theories regarding the reason, and a few potential solutions. He aches to follow him and reassure him, chest tight with sympathy, but first he has to shower and take five minutes to gather up his scattered thoughts. He figures Connor might like that, too.

By the time he comes out from under the hot spray, he feels a little more human, and his heartbeat is steady. He goes to find Connor, because it's past time to fix this.

He finds him sitting on the edge of the bed, staring thoughtfully at his hands. He hardly looks up at Hank.

Hank shuts the door. Makes a show of locking it loudly, even though they're alone and Sumo has not yet figured out how to twist a doorknob. This does seem to pique Connor's interest, and his eyebrows quirk upwards.

"You deserve today," Hank says without preamble. "You've been working non-stop. You have a demanding, stressful job - no, no, Con, I would know. Maybe your body can take it, but your mind just needs a fuckin' break."

"I'm -"

"If you say 'fine'," Hank warns, "I might actually scream. You're not fine. And that's okay. You don't even have to tell me what's eating at you if you're not ready, but you have to at least let me take care of you."

And oh, the irony of Hank giving him this speech is almost too much, but thankfully Connor is smarter than Hank ever was. His shoulders slump, and he nods.

Hank breathes a quiet sigh of relief. "Good boy," he says, forcing levity into his tone. "Why don't you lie down. I want to help you relax."

"You do," Connor says quietly. "You always do."

Hank would soften into a puddle if he could, but it's not the time for that. Later he’ll let Connor reduce him to a human-shaped blob of exhaustion, but right now, it’s his turn for once to at least attempt wearing him out.

Connor lies back against the pillows and stares up at his outstretched hands, patiently waiting for Hank to finish raiding his closet. He grabs a few towels, draws the curtains, and sits down on the edge of the bed, rubbing the center of Connor's chest. He can feel his heartbeat. It's fast and strong under his hand. Slows slightly when Hank leans in, brushes his hair back and starts unbuttoning his shirt.

The room is dim and quiet, and in retrospect, maybe Hank should've gotten some scented candles or something. Made this a little romantic. But mostly he just wants some of their morning back, and he suspects Connor doesn't really want anything else either. He just smiles sleepily and lets Hank undress him.

Hank loves how unabashed he is about his body. There's no shame in him, not about this, and Hank loves it. Not that he could ever have anything to be ashamed of in that department, but his ease with his own nakedness - and Hank's - is somehow soothing, so Hank doesn't feel too bad about letting his bathrobe and towel drop to the floor. Even if the back of his neck does prickle a bit. "Come on. Roll onto your stomach for me," he mutters, lips twitching when Connor obeys wordlessly and pillows his head on his arms, tilting his head a little to look at Hank.

He drags his hand up and down his back. Connor's skin is warm, smooth as silk, surprisingly soft. He's a little firmer than his build would indicate, his synthetic muscle harder than human flesh, but not - not entirely hard, either. Before he got a chance to touch, Hank had thought it would be like touching a ken doll, but it wasn't. Not with how Connor responded to this. Because - he groans softly as Hank rubs his back and traces the curve of his spine, and relaxes so beautifully under the gentler touch that Hank can't quite - he can't _not_ lie down next to him, just to be closer, just to wrap an arm around him and kiss his temple.

Connor shifts to his side, places a hand against the center of Hank's chest. His fingertips almost burn. He's always run so much warmer than Hank expected. It's like holing a flame in his arms. Even when he's exhausted, it fills him with something very similar to energy. "Hey, Hank?"

"What is it?"

There's a long silence, during which Connor's fingers wind into Hank's long hair. "Thank you."

Hank grunts. "You've nothing to thank me for."

Connor sighs softly. Presses his lips to Hank's throat. "I just - I'm happy you're here. You stayed."

His first instinct is to shrug off the statement - of course he's here. Where else would he be? No matter how rough it's been the last few weeks, this is where he belongs now.

But then, it occurs to him how it must be for Connor, who's never had anyone before. He rests his hand on Connor's lower back, traces circles and figure-eights into his skin.

"This is where I want to be," he says. "Every moment I spend with you, it's -" he cuts off, because he doesn't want to put his foot in his mouth. Put too much on Connor all at once. He rests his chin on top of Connor's head and hums. "Of course I'm here, baby."

Connor rubs his face against his collarbone. "I'm sorry I've been keeping you up. And that I made you stay home from work. I -"

"It was _my_ idea, Connor," Hank says, voice low. "I needed it, too."

Connor shivers against him. "Only because of me."

Hank huffs. "Do you have any idea how much work I missed before you came along? I was _this_ close to getting fired. I was spiraling. I don't need to tell you, you were there."

"I don't - want to drag you down with me."

It's almost a whisper, and it makes Hank's heart clench again. "Sometimes," he says, "I worry we're too similar to each other, for our own good, you know?"

Connor shifts, looks up at him, brown eyes wide and warm. Hank strokes the bridge of his nose with his thumb. "Jen and I - we never talked. That was mostly my fault. I never wanted to burden her with the shit I brought home." Hank shrugs, a little awkwardly. "Thought it was for the best. Turns out it made me act like an asshole, and it just made her feel - shit, I don't know. Lonely."

Connor's arms tighten around him. "I don't want to hurt you."

"I know, love. Trust me, I understand." Hank kisses a freckle on his jaw. "You're doing just fine. I just want you to know I'm here."

Connor shifts a little, exposing his neck for better access, and Hank smiles. They've both been too exhausted for this recently - and maybe it's still not an answer, it won't fix everything, but it's still a familiar, wonderful comfort. Connor's hum is a low, pleased sound, his hands roam, and when Hank touches him, he arches closer and kisses him hard. If it's a distraction, it's a damn good one. Maybe what they need - is something to make them not think for a little while.

And fuck - Hank's missed this, he's missed how responsive Connor is, how enthusiastic once he gets going, not a shred of shyness in him. Not about this. Only this time - Hank's brow furrows a little - his kisses are softer somehow, hesitant in a way they've never been before; not even their first time. He pulls back a fraction, just to look at Connor, just to make sure everything's alright.

Connor glances away, biting his lip. "Could we - Hank, could we maybe switch it up tonight?"

Hank blinks rapidly. "You want to -"

"Yes, I just - I -" Connor rubs his face, expression a little pinched. "If that's okay with you, I mean. I just feel -"

Hank kisses his forehead. "You don't have to explain."

"But you _want_ to, right?" he asks, looking almost distressed.

It hits Hank that he's _nervous_. Connor usually likes to be the one to take charge. Hank's not sure what it took took for him to ask this.

"Stupid question," he says. "I always want you, any way you'll have me."

"Yes, but -"

"Connor." Hank tips his chin up and kisses him again, soft and slow, and long enough he almost forgets what he wanted to say. He draws back, smiles when Connor tries to follow him. "You're doing an awful lot of thinking right now."

Connor's breathing turns shallow. "No," he mutters softly against Hank's lips. "No thinking. Just touch me."

Hank doesn't need to be asked twice. He pins Connor to the bed, grabs his calf to hook it over his hip, strokes his thigh. They kiss, gentle and unhurried, Connor's fingers twisting into Hank's hair. The little tug of it sends heat down his spine, prickling at his skin. He can pinpoint the exact moment Connor gets out of his own head and relaxes.

Hank sighs contentedly against Connor's parted lips, then his neck when he kisses his way down behind his ear. It's warm and good like this between them, and whatever doubts have been swimming around in Hank's head dissolve with the soft sounds Connor makes. They're easy to get lost in.

Connor, with only the slightest encouragement, quickly learns not to hold back, even like this. He's breathing hard, the occasional exhale turning into a low moan as Hank teases him. Any traces of shyness vanish, and a pleasant sort of confidence surges through Hank. Connor, on occasion, very much likes to lie back and let him do the work. Hank can't say that he minds.

Connor's collected demeanor falls apart into the most beautiful fragments, and he's never had trouble telling him as much. So when he touches him, and Connor bites his lip and arches up off the bed, praise flows naturally.

"I like it when you let me take care of you," Hank says quietly, nose skimming against Connor's ear. He loves being this close, not that it's ever enough. He loves how Connor's trust feels and tastes, and how his fingers press into Hank's back to drag him closer. “You’re beautiful like this.”

Connor's breath hitches. "Hank. Please? I want you inside me. Please."

And Hank, not liking the uncertainty on his face, is more than happy to oblige. In due time.

He takes his time preparing him, because even though he insists he doesn't need it, he's tenser than a bowstring

And it's not entirely selfless, because watching Connor's face and kissing away his gasps as he rocks onto Hank's fingers might just be his favorite thing in the world. And it’s especially intimate, feeling every flutter and twitch that makes him tense or relax, feeling Connor respond to the exact amount of pressure Hank uses to search for the enticing bundle of sensitive wires deep inside him.

It's not until he's three fingers deep and leaking against Connor's thigh that it hits him. "Hey," he breathes, damp against Connor's cheek, something sparking behind his eyelids. "You with me, Connor?"

Connor opens his eyes, looks at him, something warm and small and vulnerable in his gaze.

Hank presses a little deeper, nips his jaw. Finds the spot he’s looking for and exerts a steady, slow pressure that builds until Connor’s eyes are glazed and he’s arching up off the bed. "You're perfect."

Connor huffs, close to frustrated, groans when Hank does something inside of him that makes his eyes roll back in his head. "Then why are you still talking?"

"I'm chatty in bed?"

Connor's eyes narrow. "Hank, maybe - ah - we should talk later. I - w-wait, do that again."

Hank does, laughing quietly against the curve of his shoulder when Connor gasps and thrusts his hips up.

Then he sinks his teeth into Hank's shoulder. Not hard enough to break skin, not even close, but it's the kind of hard bite that stings and shoots straight through him. "Fuck," he hisses. "Con-"

"Fuck me, Hank." It comes out pleading more than bossy. Almost where Hank wants him.

He swallows dryly, withdraws his fingers, rubs Connor's hip when he moves restlessly. "Be good then. Roll onto your stomach for me."

Connor hesitates. "I think I'd rather see you," he admits after a drawn-out pause. Shifts uneasily. "Feels- safer."

Hank blinks. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Connor's expression twists. "I know, but I still-"

Hank just nods. Another feeling hits him, stronger than before. This time it's shame. "Connor," he chokes out. "You know I'd never-"

"Please, I don't want to talk. Please, just -"

Hank shakes his head. This, he can't quite let go. "No, I - I need you to know that I'd never, ever hurt you. Or do anything you're not up to. I'm not trying to push you, I just-"

"Hank," Connor says, pointed but gentle. "Do you think I'd sleep next to you if I didn't feel safe around you?"

_You don't sleep anymore, is the problem_, Hank almost says. But that's thinking, and perilously close to talking, and they can't have that. He quirks a small smile. "I guess not."

"I just like looking at you, Hank. That's all."

It doesn't feel like that's all, but he isn't going to press the issue.

He sighs and kisses him again. Tries to exude confidence and reassuring energy somehow, even though his heart feels strange in his chest. Connor seems to notice though, because he shifts so he can better look at him for a moment, and brushes hair behind Hank's ear. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Hank lowers his gaze. "Nothing's wrong."

Connor kisses his cheek. "Good, because I'm not finished with you."

Hank hums, but has to smile when Connor goes for another kiss, then another, dragging Hank down into his arms.

Suddenly it's very easy again, even though a part of Hank still prickles with uncertainty and worry. He rolls on top of Connor, feels his restless movements. They rock together. Hank forgets what he was thinking so hard about, because Connor's mouth and hands and teeth are all on him again, and a smooth calf is draped over his thigh, and Connor's body is warm and welcoming, the look on his face open and needy. Hank wants to be everything Connor needs. Sinking into him feels like an answer to some unspoken question though, and it's got to be an answer they both like, because Connor wraps his arms around Hank and sighs in relief, and Hank just... sees stars.

"Perfect," he says, kissing Connor's exposed throat again. Connor whines softly. "Hank."

"I've got you," Hank says, rocking closer, petting Connor's ribs, feeling their rapid rise and fall. "Look at me."

Connor cups Hank's face above him, and Hank drops his forehead to rest against his. His breath is warm. He smells like laundry soap. It's not graceful, maybe, but it feels like everything. It's comforting to have Connor under him, _around_ him, his hands on his skin, his taste on his lips. More than just feeling good, it feels _right_, and Hank would have to think hard about the last time that had happened. For a long time, nothing had felt right in his life at all. Connor is exceptional in that way too, and in never fails to inspire awe in him.

So he tries to show him, not with words he doesn't have yet, but the reverence he touches Connor with, and with everything else he has. It doesn't feel like enough, but Hank figures the answer must be somewhere in the trying.

Connor comes suddenly and hard, clenching around Hank in every possible way, burying his face in his shoulder and making a sweet, muffled sound not unlike a sob. Hank holds him through it. Eases him down, slows his movements, presses a series of tender kisses to his jaw.

"Don't stop," he pants, so Hank doesn't. He follows Connor over the edge a couple of lazy thrusts later, spilling deep inside him with a harsh sound he can't quite hold back, grinding as deep into him as he can go, with every intent of staying there.

Connor doesn't seem to mind, either. He keeps Hank close, rubbing his hair like he's petting Sumo. Hank can't even think about parting, so he stays tucks his face into the crook of Connor's neck, lets his weight settle down on top of him. He used to think Connor didn't smell like much, but it's not strictly true. He smells clean, synthetic, like brand new electronics when Hank nuzzles close enough. It used to be the sort of smell he associated with waking into a Cyberlife store, or opening a factory-sealed box with a laptop inside it.

Now it just makes him hard. It usually means being awfully close to Connor's bare skin.

He closes his eyes, contentment stealing over him. "Hank?"

"Yeah?"

Connor shivers and blinks slowly. His LED is a reassuring blue, but Hank grabs the edge of the blanket to tuck it around them both anyway.

He looks grateful for it, or at least satisfied. He sighs. "This is nice."

Hank thinks 'nice' is an understatement. "Let's just stay like this for the rest of the day," he mumbles against Connor's shoulder. "And night. Actually all week would be nice, too."

Connor smiles. "You're just trying to rope me into another movie marathon, aren't you?"

Hank's chest rumbles with a laugh. "Naturally."

He sighs, soft and wistful. "It sounds nice, to be honest."

Hank goes a little quiet. "Wow. You really must be exhausted."

"I have to be exhausted to want to spend time with you?"

Hank flushes. "No, but you never really -" he cuts off before he can put his foot in his mouth. Too late, of course. Connor turns, eyebrows shooting up. "I never really what?"

Hank sighs and rubs his face. "Nothing. It's not - it's fine. It's just, you never really... settle? There's nothing wrong with that, I just -" He cuts off, because he's just making it worse.

Connor pouts. "You just _what_, Hank?"

Hank winces. "I - I know I'm not good at keeping up sometimes, Connor. I'm just - you know. Just me. Old and tired - no, don't make that face, I don’t - this isn’t me putting myself down. I don't have the same energy you do, and that's fine. I'm just worried when you _don't_."

Connor huffs. "It's allowed."

Hank noses into his hair. "Of course it is. But you worry about me, right? Goes both ways, love."

Connor seems to process this, then relaxes minutely, even though his LED completes a few turns on yellow. "Yes, but that's - not the same."

Hank sighs deeply, wraps an arm around him, and drags him flush against his chest. "Trust me," he says, kissing his cheek. "It's the same."

Connor flashes him a smile, but it's a pale ghost of any good feeling.

He thinks he understands. He sighs, ruffles Connor's hair, and sits up.

Connor's LED flashes red. "Hank?"

Hank rubs his side. "I won't be long. Just stay put."

The soft doubt in Connor's eyes kills him. But he knows that some days just suck, and those can't always be fixed. Staying home, sex - they're good distractions, but that's all they are, and between the moments of feeling there's some hollows that can leave one feeling remarkably low. He just wishes Connor didn't know.

He only leaves for a moment. He puts on hot water, because Connor likes the smell of Hank's tea, and digs around the fridge for a slice of leftover red velvet cake. He grabs a book off the counter, his favorite vinyl for relaxing before bed, and a few candles from the cabinet.

He's back maybe five minutes later. Connor's lying on his belly, arm outstretched and touching the cooling sheets on Hank's side of the bed. Hank quiets his steps, convinced he's fallen asleep, until Connor turns a little to look over at him. He sniffs. "Chamomile."

"Sage, actually."

He shakes his head. "No, definitely chamomile."

Hank gives it a sniff and curses under his breath.

"This wouldn't happen if the cabinet was organized. The tea gets mixed up."

"Yeah, well, I like a surprise."

Connor laughs lightly. Hank sets down his tea, turns the music on, and flops heavily down onto the bed. Connor rolls towards him and presses his face to his thigh as he sets the candles down on a plate and lights them.

"Let no one ever tell you that I'm not a romantic," he mutters. "See?"

Connor snorts. "While I appreciate you setting the mood, I think we may have done our date backwards."

Hank smiles. "I don't think so. This is nice, right? Look, the candles even smell like cinnamon. If it goes well, after dinner I'll take you home."

"Dinner?"

Hank points to the slice of cake. Fights down a smile when Connor laughs again, a little warmer than before.

For all his sophisticated, 'I'm a state-of-the-art prototype' ways, Connor has a massive sweet tooth, and ends up stealing half of Hank's frosting.

"Listen," Hank says later, as they sit in the guttering, orange glow. "I know I can't fix this for you, or make you feel better, but if you need me, for anything, ever, I -"

"You do make me feel better," Connor mumbles. His eyes are closed, and he's drifting at Hank's side.

"Yeah, well. I try." Hank looks up at the ceiling, squeezes Connor's bare shoulder. "I figure, bringing you tea and cake is the least I can do, right?"

"Hm."

He strokes the shell of Connor's ear. "I love you, you know? I'd do anything to make you happy."

Connor's eyes snap open to meet Hank's. His LED completes a slow, colorful cycle. "You do?"

Hank frowns, heart tripping over itself. "Was that not obvious?"

"It's just that - you've never said it before."

Hank scoffs. "Of course I have."

"I think I'd remember, Hank."

Hank frantically searches his memory, because that can't be right. He thinks about all the times he'd called Connor 'love', and all the desperate, affectionate confessions, but now that he thinks about it, the simplest form of the declaration is indeed not there.

Hank's never been a very declarative person. He'd agonized over the first time he felt it was okay to call Connor a pet name. Over their first hug, their first kiss, first time. Over the time he'd asked him, choked up, if he would like to move in. Each moment was etched on him. He remembers the feeling, the certainty, the little - and large - things he's done to make Connor welcome in his life. He's never been perfect at it, he never would be, but it had never occurred to him that Connor might not _know_.

Hank's failed in the absolute worst way. Because he had one job, and one simple facet of Connor's personality to work with.

He _needed_ to make Connor feel loved. And he had to use his fucking _words_, because sometimes Connor needed that. Sophisticated as his detective skills were, certainty was always safer. Hank groans and drops his face into his hands. "I'm an idiot."

Connor makes a soft huff of a noise and winds an arm around Hank's leg, pressing his face into it, like he's hugging a teddy bear. His hand rests lightly on Hank's inner thigh, right above his knee. "It's okay."

Hank rubs his face furiously. It's not okay, but he doesn't want to make this about himself right now. He fights down a heavy sigh and cups the back of Connor's skull gently. "Connor, I -"

"Hank, it's not like I didn't know. I just didn't think you'd ever actually say it."

Hank stiffens, because that's somehow definitely _worse_. And he has no idea how to respond to it, so he just drops his gaze and says 'oh.'

Connor traces a soft circle into his skin. "Hank. It doesn't matter."

Hank laughs bitterly. "It does. You should've heard it before now."

"I did," Connor says, face tired but softened with a half-smile. "Your eyes are remarkably expressive."

Hank flushes. "That's not the point. I can't believe - you deserve better than that. You deserve to hear it from me, especially - after everything we've been through."

Connor shrugs, so casual it manages to crack Hank's heart open all over again. "They're just words."

Hank weaves his fingers through the soft tufts of his hair, dismayed, wondering if this is one of those things that he just - can't explain, no matter how hard he tries. Never mind the fact that they're words Hank also likes to hear once in a while. Some things are just important to say.

He takes a deep breath. "Yeah, well. Guess I'm an old sap, but they’re sort of important words."

Connor's embrace tightens slightly. "Maybe you are, but I wouldn't trade you for the anything." He says it like he says everything else, with sincerity, an almost painful earnestness.

Hank sniffs. Damn allergies, acting up in the middle of a perfectly good conversation.

"Hank? Don't cry."

He sniffs again. "'M'not. Got something in my eye."

Connor pets his leg, slow and soothing. Hank squeezes his eyes shut and exhales through his nose.

"We're going to be okay," Connor says after a while, quiet and sweet. "We're both a little messed up, but we're good for each other." He rubs his face against Hank's leg again and groans when Hank scratches behind his ear.

"Yeah," Hank manages, his voice thick. "We are."

That night they sleep tangled together, Connor’s head pillowed on Hank’s chest. Hank wakes in the middle of the night to a blessedly quiet bedroom and a Connor deeply asleep, which is a strange comfort because it’s good, and still manages to send a chill of worry down his spine. But Connor sleeps through the night, and the night after that. Hank’s not naive enough to think that’s the end of it, but he’s grateful for the rest anyway.

He keeps a close eye on Connor during the day, does his best to make sure he’s not overworking himself. He’s pretty sure Connor both notices and is annoyed by it, but he doesn’t say anything, and smiles weakly when Hank drags him to bed early. They make good use of the extra time though, and the next morning Hank wakes up sore and sticky in the best possible way. It takes him a second to realize that Connor’s not in bed, and a minute to realize he’s not in the house.

Hank shoves down the frantic part of his brain. Looks around for a note, and when he finds nothing, he shucks his coat on, heart in his throat, and makes for the door. He all but barrels into Connor in the doorway, just as he opens it to let Sumo in.

Connor is immediately on high alert. “What happened?”

Hank slumps awkwardly against the door. He’d laugh, if he didn’t feel so stupid. “Nothing.”

“You’re barefoot.”

Hank looks down at his naked feet. "Right."

Connor gives him a measured stare. He can see the frustration simmering behind the placid facade again, and it twists something in Hank's chest. Hard. His voice shakes when he manages to squeeze out the quiet 'sorry.'

Connor just sighs. "I only left for a minute. Sumo had to pee."

"I know."

"I appreciate your concern, but I can take care of myself, and -"

Hank turns sharply away, something jagged making itself known with every hard thump of his heart. "I just woke up. Wasn't thinking."

Connor takes a step closer. Then another when Hank doesn't turn to him. He places a careful hand against the center of Hank's chest, where he undoubtedly finds his heart hammering away.

"I'll wake you next time. You just looked so tired, I thought -"

Hank grabs his fingers to squeeze them. "It's fine. Not your fault my mind always goes to the worst possible place first."

Connor frowns. "Where did you _think_ I went?"

"I didn't. I just - I saw you weren't there, and flipped out. Let's just forget about this, okay?"

Connor nods, but doesn't pull back. He presses a kiss to Hank's cheek first, an apology for making Hank worry as much as it is acknowledgment and forgiveness. Hank finally exhales.

He also comes to the uncomfortable conclusion that he has to do something about this. This level of stress is not sustainable for either of them, and if he has a panic attack every time Connor leaves his line of sight, he's just going to end up pushing him away. They both need - something. Maybe a longer break, if Hank could afford it. Maybe just a change of pace. He runs a hand down his face. "Hmph. I should retire. Take up a relaxing hobby. I dunno, gardening or something."

Connor's mouth quirks uncertainly. "You'd be bored out of your mind before the week was over."

Hank forces a tight smile. "Probably."

But it suddenly hits him that the half-joke had a larger kernel of truth hidden in it than he'd realized.

Maybe it was just... time. He's been tired for a while, long before he met Connor. Maybe even before Cole's death, although he hadn't seen the signs back then. Immediately, he feels guilty for even thinking it. The last three years haven't exactly been productive on his part, he has no real cause for burnout of any kind, and despite his grousing, he's young for retirement.

And besides, it's not like he hates work. It's gotten much better with Connor around, which also brings him to his last point. He's Connor's partner. They work well together. They protect each other on and off the field. There's a thrill to solving a case together, and deep satisfaction in a job well done. It's just... draining, and leaves him with an ever-expanding database of things he can't unsee.

He sighs. "When I had nightmares like yours, I used to leave the house in the middle of the night to drink overlooking the water and daydream about — not having to suffer anymore. You have to promise me, if it ever gets that bad - you'd tell me, right?"

Connor blinks at the confession, the clear implication in it. He leans in to wrap his arms around Hank's middle. "Yeah, Hank. Of course."

He presses his nose into Connor's hair. "Okay."

He leans away to give Connor his space a second later, but to his surprise, Connor doesn't let him go. He relaxes into an embrace, gently rubbing Hank's side under his shirt, cheek pressed to Hank's clavicle. Hank winds an arm around him and takes a deep breath. "Maybe - you should talk to someone. If not me, then someone who could actually help you."

Connor's shoulders slump. "No one can help me."

"What if you're wrong?"

Connor steps away, looking defeated. "They're just dreams. They scare you more than they scare me."

Hank shrugs helplessly. Connor's nightmares vary in intensity, and they don't always wake him. And they don't exactly _scare_ Hank, either, they just make him sad. He's seen Connor get hurt - tortured, even killed. And he meets it all with an unflinching kind of stoicism. "All I'm saying is, maybe there's a way. You don't have to, but if you wanted me to help you find someone -"

"What, like a therapist?" Connor looks almost offended. Hank wants to bang his head against the door. It's like taking a very uncomfortable look in the mirror. "Maybe," he chances. "Think about it?"

"I'm an android. It doesn't work that way. This is just - an unfortunate bug. It'll resolve on its own eventually. My software just needs a chance to - process everything." He doesn't sound too sure of himself.

Hank squeezes his shoulder. "Alright. Well, until then, I'm here if you need me." And fuck if he doesn’t feel like a broken record, but he just doesn’t know what else to say.

Connor's eyes soften, and he presses a brief kiss to Hank's lips. "I always need you."

_I need you, too_, Hank almost says, but he's trying to be Connor's rock right now. He needs to be there for him, stronger than he feels.

The subject of Connor getting professional help is dropped, and that seems to be it.

The nightmares come and go. Hank gets oddly, horribly accustomed to the sound of static-laced gunshots and the occasional broken cry for help. It's not less painful, but he learns to deal.

The night their uneasy routine goes more or less to shit is the same night Hank thinks, 'he's getting better' as he reflects on the last few dreamless, peaceful nights.

They've had a good day, closed a case, then celebrated by leaving work early and going to see a movie. Hank barely remembers what it was about, because they sat in the back, and halfway through some action scene Connor had climbed into his lap. They were entirely alone, and while Hank balked at the thought of cameras, Connor had no such concerns. They ended up making out, fumbling like teenagers, and Hank had to pin Connor's hips into stillness well before the credits rolled because he didn't feel like sitting around for another hour with a mess in his jeans. The waiting made coming home that much better though. They didn't even make it to the bedroom; Hank was impatient, and used his teeth to communicate as much as they stumbled through the front door, tugging at each other for support and in explicit demand. In fact, their clothes didn't really get a chance to come all the way off. And that was good too, because there was something so delicious about messing up Connor's neatly combed hair and pristinely pressed dress shirt, and only pushing his pants halfway down his thighs before sinking into his warm, greedy mouth, right against the living room wall.

Connor was a hard, proud man and having him like like that made Hank go a little weak in the knees. Because he didn't just accept this, he asked for it. He asked to kneel, to swallow Hank down, to have his hair pulled. He liked this combination of rough and loving as much as Hank did. It was perfect to make them both feel enough to block out everything else, to make everything except this fade into an unimportant hum. And after they were done, it left them both in a comfortable space, taking care of each other. Hank sometimes carried a limp Connor to bed. Tonight was no exception. It was just good, so good that Hank fell asleep with Connor still panting softly in his arms, and with a dopey grin on his face.

He wakes up to a different sound, although it takes him too much time to process what it actually is. He blinks owlishly into the darkness, trying to figure it out, until the unmistakable, broken _whimper_ snaps him out of his daze. He rolls, fumbling for Connor, shaking him gently. Connor's lying on his side, but the second Hank touches him, he curls in on himself. Hank tries to listen, get the slightest clue of what on earth had upset him this badly, but there's no static, no noises coming out of his tv or his phone or anything else, just a rough, wet sob that comes out of Connor.

He sits up, heart in his throat. "Baby?"

But he's still asleep, LED flaring a bright red that casts an eerie glow over the pillows, so Hank shakes him a little harder, rubs his back, drags him out of whatever nightmare has him in its clutches this time.

It's worse than before. It's never been this hard to wake him. He's also never been like this. Not this panicked and lost and - wild. He makes a keening noise into the pillow when Hank wraps an arm around him, one he's desperately trying to choke back. Hank has no idea what to do besides making a low shushing noise and petting his hair. Connor just shivers under his hand like a bird.

Hank drags him against his chest. He starts, like he's just realizing where he is, a huff of soft breath on his skin. And then fingers digging into Hank's ribs, bruising as he hides his face in Hank's chest hair. He's trying to strangle the noises he's making, because of course he is. Hank holds him so tightly he'd be afraid of breaking him in any other context. Right now it doesn't matter. He wants to seep under Connor's skin and fucking stay there.

"You're safe," he tries to remind him, but it's hard to breathe, hard to think anything besides _hold him_, hard to feel anything other than a cold certainty that this is somehow his fault.

"Hank?" Connor breathes, small and confused. "I - Hank?"

"What do you need, love?"

Connor just hiccups out a hysterical laugh. "I'm sorry. I -" he cuts off, sniffs loudly.

He's too warm. Hank runs a hand up and down his back and feels a static crackle, and Connor just whimpers again, trying to curl himself closer to Hank's chest.

"Try to breathe for me."

Circulating a little air helps cool him, but it doesn't stop his crying, or his clinging to Hank like he can't quite control his limbs. The apologies that spill from him feel frantic, as does the hard beat of his thirium pump against Hank's hear.

Hank fucking breaks. He doesn't know how to fix this. He doesn't know how to help at all, he doesn't know enough to offer android-specific advice, and right now he's not sure he can give Connor-specific advice either. He wants to be strong for him so, so badly, but he just can't anymore. He buries his face in Connor's hair and pretends the tears leaking from him are somehow cleansing, even though really they're just exhausting ad unproductive and make his eyes and his chest hurt, and he should've saved them for later, for where they can't compound all of this. "Hank?"

Hank tries to find his voice. "Just talk to me, love. Please. I'm here."

Connor sniffs again. The air smells a little like plastic and ozone. "D-don't go anywhere, okay?"

"I've got you. Staying right where I am." He rubs a circle between Connor's shoulders.

"I'm so tired, Hank."

"I know," Hank chokes out. "I know, baby. Let me carry some of this for you for a while, hm? I can handle it."

Connor sobs into his chest. "I can't."

"Sure you can," Hank says. "You don't have to do this alone. I know I'm not much, but I-"

"Don't say that," Connor almost snaps. "Just don't- you can't. I love you. I love you more than anything. How can you say that's not much?"

"I didn't mean it that way," Hank says, at a loss. "I just want you to lean on me. I don't know what to do to help. You won't tell me."

Connor sighs shakily and burrows closer. "I don't know. I don't know what I need. I just want you to _stay_."

A yawning pit opens up somewhere in Hank's chest again. It makes his eyes sting and his insides feel knotted up. He wants to soak Connor's pain up like a sponge. Except he can't, and maybe he doesn't have enough to give to make this better. Maybe after all this time there's just not enough of Hank left. But God, he'd still give Connor all of it if he could.

"I'm here. I... want you to feel safe. To trust me."

Connor freezes. "I trust you."

"Not with this," Hank says quietly, hurt sneaking into his voice despite himself. "I know it's hard, but - it's hard for me, too. I don't know why you won't talk to me. I - is there something I - should be doing, or something I'm doing wrong?"

Connor just about crushes the breath out of him. He sounds close to tears again, his voice small and broken. "No. No, I'm just - scared."

Hank pets his hair. "I'll protect you," he says, trying to smile. As if he can protect an android that could fold him into an origami crane.

Connor finally looks at him. His lashes are wet and spiky with thirium tears, cheeks damp. Hank's never seen his eyes look quite this sad. "You can't protect me from the things I'm afraid of." His gaze skirts away again, and he bites his lip. "My fears are not rational. I- I dream of things that are no longer a threat. Of things that never happened. I - stasis is supposed to reset me, let me rest, update me protocols and commit data to long term storage. I'm - broken. Something's gone wrong in my head, and I can't fix it. No one can."

Hank curls his fingers around Connor's wrist. "You're not broken," he says, because he can't stand the thought of him thinking such a thing. "You're hurting. And processing everything that happened. It's - healing isn't an overnight thing."

"Humans heal. What if I can't?"

Hank brings Connor's hand to his lips, brushes them over his knuckles, absorbs his soft sigh. "You can. But if you went to see a technician - or Markus -"

"No," Connor says, eyes squeezing shut. His voice sounds pained. "No, I can't - I can't go back there. I can't, Hank."

"You don't have to. I just think maybe you could get some insight into - why you're experiencing some of the things -"

"They're going to take me apart," he rasps quietly. "I'm faulty. You don't know what they'd do to find the error. You don't know how it feels."

Hank can't know how it feels, but he's been right here at Connor's side as he jolted violently awake and clawed at his chest like he was checking if everything was still there. He’s seen the faces of anonymous technicians looming overhead as they pulled and tugged at things inside of Connor.

He kisses Connor's temple. "I'm not going to push you, but you know I'd never let that happen, right?"

Connor exhales. "No," he admits, "I know you wouldn't."

That's enough for Hank, at least for now, so he breathes a quiet, "Good" against Connor's skin. He can feel him sinking a little deeper into their embrace.

He thinks maybe their conversation's run its course for now. But then Connor sighs, breath hitched, and says, "Tonight was different."

"Worse," Hank agrees groggily. "I've never seen you this upset."

Connor shudders like he's shaking off the memory. "There was a blizzard. Couldn't see a thing. Couldn't find you."

Hank rubs his lower back. He doesn't want to say the wrong thing now that Connor is opening up. It feels fragile, like he might clam up at any moment, so he just keeps his mouth shut and touches him, reminds him of his presence.

It also makes sense. It's been almost a year, and the snow is returning. Connor never really talked about what happened the night of the revolution. But Hank does remember his apprehensive - almost visceral - response to heavy snowfall. He hadn't asked then, but things had been different between them still. Tentative. It didn't feel right. So he hadn't pried, but now he wishes he had, because he very much wants to understand.

Connor just shakes himself off though, eyes sliding shut and voice dropping lower. "I'm scared of the person I almost was. I hurt people. Marcus. You. I almost didn't make it out."

"You're here now," Hank says, tracing his cheekbone, his lips. "You broke free."

Connor gives him a pale ghost of a smile. "It was too close a call."

"I always believed in you," Hank says fiercely. "I always will. And I'm so - so very proud of you. I know it wasn't easy."

Hank feels like he hasn't said that enough, not lately anyway, and maybe Connor needs the reminder that he's empathetic, and kind, and strong; that he always had been, that this is what really freed him, not Hank, who feels like Connor still credits him too much for his deviancy. But it's late, and it's an awful lot of words to get out while his eyes are drifting closed. So he just tells Connor he loves him again, holds him close to his chest, marveling at how easy it is to say and how often it occurs to him that he wants to say them.

Connor mumbles something tiredly, and Hank feels the soft brush of his lips on his forehead. And he's suddenly full of a warm rush of a feeling, concern and love and pride all at once, a heavy certainty that he wants this forever. For as long as Connor will have him.

He sleeps uneasily that night, worry still making him stir.

Connor does not sleep at all.

Not that night, and not the next. It takes Hank almost three days to notice. He wakes up with Connor spooning him each morning, so he doesn't think twice about the dreamless nights until Connor, in his attempt to make breakfast, swears colorfully when a glass slips from his grip and shatters on the floor. Hank stares, dumbfounded, trying to figure out where his strange stir of emotion came from, and abruptly realizes he's never seen Connor drop _anything_ before.

He's never seen his hands shake like this either. He stands up so fast the chair screeches across the tile. "No, let me - "

Hank kneels next to Connor anyway, gently pushing his hands away from the shards of glass. "You're going to hurt yourself. I'll get a broom."

Connor bows his head, fingers curling into fists. "I'm sorry."

"It's just a glass," Hank mutters, taking Connor's hand. Connor presses the heel of his other one into his eye. "I'm just tired. I think I need to sit down."

Hank's heart clenches. Connor doesn't show signs of exhaustion like a human. He never looks ragged or bleary-eyed, never gets dark circles. But his shoulders are slumped. He _dropped a glass_. And now his hand rests a little limply in Hank's grip, a small tremor going through it as he stands up. Hank puts an arm around him and shuffles him over to the couch.

"I'm fine. I can walk," Connor mutters.

"Humor me."

"Did you sleep through the night?"

Connor's eyes dart away, and he sighs. "No."

The back of Hank's neck prickles. "When's the last time you did?"

Connor just shifts uneasily. "I'm not sure."

Hank exhales through his nose to the count of ten. "Did you sleep _at all_?"

"Not for the last few days."

Hank sits next to Connor, springs creaking under him. He puts a hand on his knee and squeezes gently. "My love, you need to rest."

Connor shoots him a weak smile. "I know. I think I'll just lie down over here for a while."

"Let me get you a pillow and some blankets, okay?"

Connor nods, and Hank presses a kiss to his forehead before he goes. When he comes back from the bedroom, Connor's curled up on his side, looking oddly - small.

Hank tucks the blanket around him, shifts him to stick a couple of pillows under his head. Connor's out like a light. Hank cleans up the broken glass and tosses it into the bin, dusts off his hands. He looks back at where Connor is sleeping, then goes to sit down next to him, places his legs across his lap.

He leans back into the couch, stares up at the ceiling, and rubs his face. He listens to his breathing for a while, quiet and even in the silence. It's a sound that normally lulls him, but right now he can't help but strain to hear any changes in it, any hitches or groans or discomfort.

He reaches, gently places his hand over Connor's chest. He's warm, and his thirium pump - so much like a human heart - beats out a steady, strong rhythm. It's nice and slow, for now. Hank relaxes minutely, but he doesn’t move his hand. The thought of not touching him actually feels kind of unbearable right now. Besides, the warmth radiating from him is soothing to Hank, too.

When Hank’s fingers brush his collarbone, he makes a sweet, sleepy noise. Hank pets him for a little while, trying to keep him lulled, and reminding him of his presence. From the snippets of the nightmares he’d seen and Connor’s reluctant confessions, Hank’s concluded that Connor is especially bothered by the thought of being alone. He almost smiles when Connor nuzzles against his hand.

Then the tv flickers. Hank tenses, hackles rising, makes a low, long shushing noise. For a little while, Connor settles, but the flickering quickly returns. He squeezes Connor’s arm.

It’s an odd dream. Hank thinks about waking him, but it seems so peaceful, slow. There’s no dissonant, shattered images, no noise but the soft lap of water and a slight rustle of the wind.

Connor is walking around a neatly groomed garden. The sky is a little dark, but it’s a beautiful place. There’s a lattice of roses on an island in the middle, bright and crimson, but Connor veers away from them, static fuzzing out the image slightly. He walks away, towards a distant corner of the garden.

He halts, looks to his left. There’s a patch of lush grass here. It’s studded with gravestones, but before Hank can read them, Connor looks up.

A woman stands in front of him, face carefully neutral. She looks familiar, although Hank can’t place why. Hank waits for her to say something, but she stays silent. Now that he thinks about it, there’s something cold, almost foreboding in the way she’s looking at Connor.

His grip tightens on Connor’s arm. “Baby? Wake up.”

Connor does not wake up. But the image fuzzes again, hard, and rain begins to fall. Her expression doesn’t change. "Connor?" Hank shakes him gently, but he doesn't stir.

The specter on the screen, suddenly nearly obscured by snow, flashes a too-wide smile, gone as quickly as it appeared. _You failed_, she says icily. _Again_.

The sky shifts into complete darkness, and Connor shivers in Hank's arms. "Connor!" Hank snaps, heart in his throat, "Wake up."

_wake up_, the television echoes. The voice isn't Hank's.

_Hank?_

"Babe, you're dreaming. Wake up for me." He rubs the space between Connor's shouders.

Dream Connor looks around the garden. The woman is gone. There's just snow, everywhere, the rush of it getting louder. Connor's breath hitches. He looks back to the graveyard, takes a step towards it, stumbles.

The graves are unmarked.

"CONNOR!"

There's another echo, dull and distant, still not quite in Hank's voice. Connor looks up, and the treeline is gone. The shadows persist, headstones scattered as far as the eye can see.

Hank shakes him, hard. He groans quietly, and the image flickers, spins like he's falling through air.

He sits up so suddenly, his head knocks into Hank's. Hank winces and catches him to steady him, and Connor flinches like he's been burned, scrambling back against the armrest, something terribly blank in his eyes.

"Connor," Hank croaks. "You there?"

Connor rubs his arms up and down slowly, then looks at his hands. His fingers curl and uncurl. He blinks rapidly, glances suspiciously at Hank's cautiously extended hand. When he looks up at his face, his expression softens. Then crumples, and he bows his head with a quiet whine.

"Can I hold you?"

Connor sniffs loudly and nods. Hank draws him into his arms, squeezing as hard as he can, cupping the back of his head when he tries to burrow against Hank's chest. He's sure Connor can feel the frenetic drumbeat of his heart, not that it matters.

He doesn't cry. He just clings to Hank, shivering. Hank curls his hand over his nape to press him closer, grunts when Connor makes another little noise and then clambers into Hank's lap to straddle him and wind around him like a sloth.

"You're so warm," he says, the sound muffled against Hank's shirt. "You feel so real."

"I am."

"I know. I know, I just -" he chokes, makes a frustrated sound. "I just wanted to sleep."

"I know."

"I _hate_ that place. I thought I was done with it. Now it's coming back and I can't - I can't do this anymore."

Hank's grip tightens. "What do you need?"

Connor sits up straight to look at Hank's face. He looks exhausted. His eyes are tired and a little glazed over, and he looks like he's having trouble focusing. His fingers are clenched in Hank's shirt.

"I need your help. I need you to take me to CyberLife."

Given the terror that had been on his face just a few days ago at the very thought of going back, Hank's not sure how to respond. He's glad Connor finally wants to do something about this; mildly horrified because if he's willing to do it, things must be bad. Very bad. He just squeezes Connor's hands though, because right now he has one job, and it's to be supportive as all hell.

"Of course, honey."

Connor looks away. "I'd like you to stay with me, but - I understand if you'd rather not. If there's any repairs, they - could be disturbing."

Hank's not sure it's going to be quite as simple as Connor is hoping. But answers are better than nothing, and there's no way in hell that he's gonna not be right there at Connor's side to make him feel less alone in all of this.

"Good luck getting rid of me," Hank says.

Connor smiles weakly, brushing his knuckles with his fingertips. "Thank you."

Hank's the one who ends up scheduling their appointment, because Connor almost dozes right off again. They go that same evening, and take Sumo with them. He lies in Connor's lap in the back seat of Hank’s car. Hank tries not to watch them in his rear-view mirror.

CyberLife has changed a lot in the last year. Markus and the others were still fighting for control, but little by little, things were getting better.

They're still not great though. The upheaval around the revolution left an awful mess behind. Change didn't happen in a day. He understands why Connor's afraid. And he's surprised by the prickle of anxiety he feels as well; the last time he'd been at the tower, it had been under rather unpleasant circumstances.

This place is different now. It's a hub of human and android activity. Manufacture has been temporarily shut down, which instead made room for a medical bay, emergency wards, shops with upgrades of every conceivable kind, biocomponents, inexpensive housing. Cyberlife had turned what should've been a disaster for them into a new level of profit.

Hank doesn't trust any of it one bit. He holds Connor's hand as they take the elevator down to the technician's office, suddenly and uncomfortably paranoid. There are cameras everywhere, watching. Connor's face is both unique and infamous among androids and CyberLife staff.

Connor laughs lightly. "You know, oddly enough, knowing you're nervous about this too makes me feel better."

"I'm not nervous."

"Your heart rate almost doubled, Hank."

Hank sniffs. "Not nervous."

Connor grips his hand a little harder. He's silent for a moment, staring ahead. "Promise me - you won't let them -" He tails off, frowns. "I don't even know what, I just. Don't let them do anything I wouldn't do."

This time Hank can feel his pulse jump in his neck. "No one's laying a finger on you. You're going to be fine. We just want diagnostics."

"Yeah," Connor whispers.

They end up in an empty waiting room, where Connor releases his hand, back straightening when an android tells them to stay put.

The walls are cold and sterile. Sumo curls up on the floor between them, head resting on Connor's shoe. They wait for about twenty minutes. Hank's ready to start pacing by the time the technician shows up.

They get ushered down a hallway eventually, and halt in front of a lab door. The tech pokes his head out, eyebrows inching up at the sight of Connor, who stiffens beside Hank.

"Well," he says, opening his door wider. "Haven't seen you in a while." He dusts off his coat, eyes flashing to Hank. They're not unfriendly, but Hank still bristles at their somehow flat look. It hadn't occurred to him that Connor might know his tech from - before. He's not sure how he feels about the realization.

The uncertainty veers sharply into dislike when he says, "You and your dog should probably wait outside."

Hank bites out a crisp 'no.'

Connor's good at schooling his features around people. But Hank can still see his relief.

The lab interior is somehow even worse than the waiting room. Everything is white, including the lights that immediately make his head ache. There's a machine in the center, some kind of mounting rack, and it takes a second for Hank to figure out Connor's supposed to go inside it. Connor stops, looks at the tech, touching his throat absently. Hank reaches to squeeze the back of his neck.

The tech sits down at a terminal, raising an eyebrow at Connor. He looks too young to be doing this, really. "You know the drill."

"Yes, but - I'd rather not."

The tech sighs with a muttered 'deviants.'

Hank frowns and opens his mouth. But then Connor seems to sway a little on his feet, and Hank's too preoccupied with trying to make sure he doesn't keel over to tell the guy off.

The harsh, unfriendly light above them blinks. There's no place for him to sit here, nothing soothing about the room. Everything is cold and mechanical and looks like it's meant to restrain. It's no wonder, really, that Connor had been so reluctant about this.

Connor leans against an empty wall, brow furrowed. "I just need some information," he says, crossing his arms. "I have trouble entering and staying in stasis. And while I'm there, something is - off. I have - dreams. And sometimes I'm not sure whether they're real or not."

The tech stares at him, focus suddenly razorlike. "How so?"

Connor straightens up. "I see Amanda sometimes."

He waves his hand dismissively. "Discontinued. Nothing interesting there, just memories."

Connor looks troubled. "They're not just memories. And they're - intense."

The tech sighs again, rubs his face. "You know I can't run diagnostics like this. What am I supposed to say, 'congratulations, you have nightmares?' I assume they are, or else you wouldn't be here. Can't imagine you were in a hurry to see me again." He smiles, flat and lifeless, and Hank immediately hates him.

Connor exhales slowly and looks at the scary contraption, all gleaming arms, wires, tubing. "Alright," he says tiredly "Let's make this quick."

Something in Hank's head screams out an insistent _LEAVE_. He wants to pick Connor up, sling him over his shoulder and take him home. Or at least away from here, from the ominous machinery and the tech that's looking at Connor with the same consideration you give a houseplant. "You know what to do," the tech says, turning back to his screen on his swiveling chair.

Connor gives Hank a tight smile. "I probably should've told you beforehand, but they're going to want my clothes off for this. And my - skin."

Hank feels abruptly nauseous. "Why?" he snaps before he can help himself.

Connor's expression flickers. He looks away, starts unbuttoning his shirt, and doesn't answer. The tech pipes in with some explanation involving the location of various ports and biocomponents.

It's bullshit, is what it is. There should be no need for this. A power play is what it is, a way of making Connor vulnerable in a way there should be no need for. There's nothing respectful about it, nothing in this room that allows for any dignity. No curtains, nothing warm, not a single goddamn chair.

He wants to wrap around Connor. Hold his hand. Kiss him and offer him any kind of comfort, and he can't, because this is bad enough without Hank nosing into his space with his own slew of emotions in front of some rat bastard with beady little eyes and not a care in the world.

Connor looks like he's got an iron rod in his spine, and Hank can't blame him. He touches his bare shoulder briefly as he shrugs out of his shirt, trying to emanate soothing energy.

"You don't have to do this," he mouths.

Connor blinks slowly and looks away. "Yeah. I do."

It makes no sense, Hank thinks as Connor strips and folds his clothes. CyberLife is running a business, and even if the face of it has changed now, it makes no sense to make their service as unfriendly and as demeaning as possible. Unless this is just about Connor, specifically.

"Are there no other technicians available?" Hank asks bluntly, standing between Connor and the tech. He crosses his arms over his chest, and Sumo, bless him, responds to his tension by standing up and giving the guy a hard, unblinking stare. "No," the tech responds, typing something into the terminal, eyes flicking briefly to Sumo. "I'm the only one here qualified to work on the RK models. As you can imagine, it's a little more complicated." He smiles again, looking up at Hank. "Don't worry. I'm very good at my job."

Hank is not particularly mollified, but he's distracted by a static crackle, and when he turns to look at Connor, he finds him slowly retracting his skin.

It's the first time Connor's done that around him, and he fervently wishes it had been under different circumstances. It's a little uncanny, seeing him peel back that last layer under the harsh glow of the overhead lights, until he's standing as naked as can be, his eyes avoiding Hank's face. Turned away, he looks like... not-himself. All the artful imperfections of his skin are gone. He's still the same shape though, tall and elegant, a little soft, the light glancing off his cheekbone, smooth and sleek lines following the contours of his body. There's a dip between his shoulder blades.

He turns a little towards Hank, still not looking up. Abruptly, the image of this delicate, doll-like being snaps into place as Connor. He's got the same deep, brown eyes, the same soft mouth. His face beautiful and familiar, even with the serial number stamped under his eye and the strangeness of seeing him without a single hair.

Hank's phone buzzes in his pocket. He's intent on ignoring it, but Connor shoots him a meaningful look, so he fumbles for the thing without breaking eye contact.

_You don't have to stay here for this._

Hank blinks. Frowns, gives the tech a suspicious look. _I'm not going anywhere,_ he types, and Connor exhales slowly.

_Okay. Thank you._

Hank's heart hurts as Connor steps up to the machinery, looking more uncomfortable that Hank's ever seen him.

"You should stand back," the tech says.

"Why?"

"For your safety. And his," he says, then goes back to typing, presses a few buttons and glances at Connor.

The machine whirs to life. He hears a soft huff, almost a gasp, almost too quiet to hear, as Connor steps into the - restraints, there's really nothing else to call them. Hank wants to throw up. He looks too fragile to be locked between the spider-like, steely arms of this thing, at the mercy of a man whose face and demeanor set off every one of Hank's alarm bells.

But Connor needs this. He needs this. He knew what was coming and he went anyway.

Hank reaches for his phone as several odd bolts and wires strategically search for the appropriate ports on Connor's body, pinning him, moving his limbs into position.

_I love you,_ Hank types.

Connor closes his eyes. _ <3_

_If you need this to stop, just say the word._

Connor jolts a little as the final wire locks into place - the one at the back of his neck. A little tremor goes through him, almost too light to see.

_<_ _̶̞̐̓͛̉̕3̷̫͚̤̹͐_

Hank frowns. The machine beeps, and the tech hums thoughtfully. "This will take a minute or two."

Hank crosses his arms and walks over to him. "What are you doing? Talk me through it."

The tech makes a face. "No offense but you're not the one I'm treating. I doubt you'll be able to understand anyway."

Hank grits his teeth. "Try," he says sweetly. He sighs, turns to the computer screen and points to it. "Right now, I'm running a simple diagnostic. It searches for common errors in the software. If it's an easy fix, it repairs as it goes."

"And if it's not?"

The tech shrugs. "Why do you think I'm here?"

Hank turns to look at Connor. His eyes are still closed. There's a tight-lipped look of determination on his face, and his LED is spinning yellow. But at least he doesn't look like he's in pain.

"His stress levels are high," the tech muses. He types a few commands into the terminal. A wall of text pops up, the font too small for Hank to read from where he's standing. He can tell it's shifting, words or indicators moving and flickering occasionally, small and bright blue.

The tech leans forward, and his mouth twitches. "Welcome to Connor's brain."

Hank's heart rate spikes. "What now?"

"Well. It's not really quite that straightforward, but you wanted to know. In the simplest terms, these tell me all sorts of interesting things about his program. There's a lot of information, but it still just barely scratches the surface."

He leans back, crosses his arms. "His charge shouldn't be allowed to get this low though. It does seem to indicate a problem with stasis. He looks over at Connor, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "When the diagnostics are done, I'm going to run tests A through L2."

Connor nods tightly, eyes still shut.

Hank sends him a text. _Hanging in there?_

_ʸᵉˢ_

He squints. Sumo paces restlessly, ears high as he stares at Connor. Like he can sense his discomfort.

The diagnostics run, machines whirring softly. The lights flicker again. The tech's brow furrows. He looks up briefly, then back to the screen. He glances at his watch.

Hank's entire back prickles unpleasantly.

It takes a while for the diagnostic to finish. When it does, the computer chimes, and the tech waves Hank off as he reads the report. Hank picks up his phone again. His hands feel cold.

_You're doing really well, honey._

There’s a pause. It takes Connor three minutes to respond. _ᴵ'ᵐ ᵍˡᵃᵈ ʸᵒᵘ'ʳᵉ ʰᵉʳᵉ_

Hank's glad too. He doesn't trust this guy as far as he can throw him. If Connor was alone -

He doesn't know why, but his gut says this whole interaction would go very differently.

He can't wait to take Connor home. It seems like a good opportunity to give him a bubble bath, then curl up together on top of some fresh sheets and watch shitty rom coms and cheesy sci-fi.

"Well, your diagnostics came back clean," the tech says over his folded hands. "Or at least as clean as you might expect."

Connor looks up, brow furrowing briefly. "That - can't be right."

He shrugs one shoulder. "Means nothing yet. Strap in, I guess we'll be here a while."

Connor - sags a little, like the last of his energy has left him completely. His eyes droop shut again, and he sighs.

The technician tuts.

Hank, who with a few notable exceptions is generally not prone to violent rage, feels the urge to throw a something heavy at his head.

He shoots Hank a look. "Did you think this was going to be quick? He's an advanced prototype, and now a deviant. If there's an error we have to deal with, I have to sift through more data than you can imagine to figure it out, all of it unprecedented. I'd like a little _space_."

Hank's phone buzzes silently in his hand. He glances at the screen.

_HAnk. don't go. please._

"I'm not going anywhere," Hank growls, leveling the tech with an acerbic look. "You're insane if you think I'm leaving Connor alone with you."

The tech smiles again, entirely devoid of any warmth. "I just said _space_, Lieutenant. No need to get aggressive. If you would step back, I'd appreciate it."

Hank stiffens. Considers putting up a fight.

But this is for Connor. For his peace of mind. For his health.

It takes a lot of effort on his part to not pace the room like an overbearing, anxious husband. He feels like an idiot, standing around doing nothing while the tech 'hmms' and 'hawws' all over his monitor, tapping away occasionally, taking his sweet time while Connor waits. _Can I punch him?_ he types finally, to distract himself as much as Connor.

Connor just smiles, a flash before it's gone.

The machinery whirs suddenly, so loud Hank can feel the vibration of it in his chest, and Connor starts.

"You know the drill," the tech mutters.

"Hold up." Hank stands straighter. "What are you doing?"

"We're going to run a little stress test," he says absently. "Isolate the problem. If it's a sensory issue, we can eliminate the possibilities one by one. Relax, Connor. You know none of this is permanent."

"Stop. Wait. He's not -"

"He's fine."

It's not fine. None of this is fine. It's been an age since Hank's seen Connor's expression this blank "Is this still okay?”

Connor blinks owlishly. The tech types something into the terminal, somehow loud even over the machinery. "Connor, I need you to tell me," Hank says, trying to keep his voice steady. "I need to know this is still alright."

Connor blinks again, winces slightly, but gives Hank a small nod. His LED spins into red, and he shuts his eyes again. Exhales slowly through his nose.

The tech leans back in his chair. Hank wants to claw his own eyes out. Connor's not okay, whatever he says. His face is drawn, he keeps trying to school it into a neutral mask, but he looks like he's _hurting_. And he ducks his head, looking almost shy, or maybe afraid.

Hank claps the tech on the shoulder and squeezes. Hard. "If you harm him, they're never going to find your body."

The tech's mouth twitches. "You know there's cameras in here, right?"

Hank gives him his best maniacal grin. "If it makes you feel better, you can pretend I care."

The tech sighs. "Why would I hurt him? I'm a man of science. Medicine, if you will. Connor is my patient. It's my job to fix him."

"Yes, and your bedside manner is just _wonderful_."

"I can coddle him, or I can repair the problem. I'd say it's you choice, but, well. It's not." He looks meaningfully at Connor. "It's his call to make, Lieutenant. We've done this before. If he didn't want to be here, he wouldn't be here. Isn't that right?"

Connor huffs. Meets Hank's eyes. "I'm alright. This is just - unpleasant. I'll be okay."

Hank searches his face for the truth. Comes to the realization that Connor is once again trying to comfort him, when he's the one in need of comfort, and it breaks his heart all over again. Hank wonders whether there's a limit on how many times that can safely happen.

He steps back, his stomach in a knot, and lets the tech get to work.

He hates every second of waiting for this to be over. He hates the careful blankness of Connor's face and the fact that he can't tell what's going on, doesn't understand enough to be of any use. And he has nowhere to sit, nothing to do with his hands, nothing to offer Connor except his presence. And right now, that doesn't feel like it's much at all.

So he stands, and he watches, and occasionally sends Connor encouraging texts. Most of the time, Connor doesn't answer. Sometimes, when he does, it makes Hank hurt all over again.

At some point, he asks Hank to talk. So Hank asks the tech want he's doing, and with a long suffering sigh he explains what he's putting Connor through to read his reactions.

It sounds like torture. He's playing with Connor's stress levels, his sensory input, the speed of his pulse, his ability to breathe. To isolate the problem he says, but when Hank asks if she shouldn't at least ask Connor how any of this feels, he just shrugs and says "I know," and taps his screen. Hank almost strangles him. But he was asked to talk so he talks, asking questions about the indicators on the screen, each test he's conducting, and when he runs out of things to ask, he starts talking to Sumo.

What he wants to do is talk to Connor. The tech goes through his commands. He looks too interested whenever Connor physically responds to what is happening, rapidly types up notes.

It takes forever. When Hank glances at his watch, he finds its been nearly an hour and a half. Connor's LED's been red the entire time. When it's over, Hank is too angry and exhausted and worried to feel relief. The tech's frown is less than encouraging.

"I need to sift through some data, but I think I'm on to something. I'm putting him in stasis."

Connor looks up sharply. "I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"Do you want to find out what's wrong, or not?"

"I do. But I - it's not safe."

The tech frowns. "How so?"

"I - Hank says I affect the electronics around me when I dream."

He looks up slowly, expression shifting into displeasure. "And you didn't think to lead with that?"

When neither of them answers, he clears his throat, speaks almost insultingly slowly. "Riiight. Well, that's all the more reason to try this. Maybe we'll get some answers that way. "

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. What a useless fucking word, and it's literally all they have.

Hank’s ready to get Connor out of here. He’s ready to free him from this awful contraption, to take him home where he’s safe and loved.

His heart sinks when Connor nods, looks at the tech, and gives him a quiet ‘okay.’

The tech smiles flatly. “Perfect. I’d tell you to relax, but - well.” He shrugs, and presses a couple of buttons on his console. Connor’s eyelids flutter, LED spinning as he blinks. Then he slumps, limp in his restraints.

Hank doesn’t even get to reassure him. He’s asleep, just like that.

“Listen here, you little prick-”

“It’s Doctor, actually. Dr. Miles Latimer,” the tech interrupts with a smug little smile. “And if you can’t be civil, I’m afraid I’ll have security escort you out.”

And Hank wants to say that he’d like to see them try. But he looks at Connor again, silent and hurting and entirely at CyberLife’s mercy, and knows it’s his job right now, above all else, to have his back. To protect him, and support him, and to make sure nothing goes wrong.

He valiantly fights down the urge to make Latimer’s insides become his outsides, and leans against the wall, arms crossed. “Just do your job,” he says tiredly.

Latimer fiddles with some controls on his screen. And then it’s a waiting game, because all he wants is to observe, and initially, Connor’s sleep is… peaceful. Or as peaceful as it can be, under these circumstances.

Hank paces restlessly for a while, then stands with his hands folded, Sumo at his feet. The silence stretches, interrupted by the occasional tapping of the keyboard, gentle beeps, Latimer’s long-suffering sigh as he glances down at his watch.

He doesn’t expect anything to happen under these circumstances. They feel too artificial, too removed from any reality. He almost hopes nothing will come of this - almost. If not for Connor’s desperation. Connor’s need for just one good night’s sleep.

Then Connor groans quietly and twitches in place.

Latimer leans forward in his seat, steepling his fingers, and stares at his screen. For a while they’re both frozen, pensive, still waiting.

The lights flicker. Faintly, briefly. It could be a busted bulb.

Hank knows better. He wants to look away. He owes it to Connor not to.

There’s a static hiss, like air being let out of a balloon. Latimer taps the screen with his pen, brow furrowing, eyes oddly bright. He taps a couple of keys and hums.

Connor whimpers, and Hank steps forward.

“Stay,” Latimer snaps. “I’ve got to see this.”

Hank swallows down a swell of impotent pain and rage. He finds himself shifting towards Connor anyway, aching to cup his face, to wrap around him, absorb the slight tremor making his frame shake.

A gunshot rings out over the speakers, and Connor flinches violently, a strangled whimper tearing out of his throat.

“Let him go,” Hank rasps.

“Not yet.”

The lights flicker again, this time longer, the room turning to black and then too-bright again, once, twice. Latimer starts typing rapidly, expression pinched.

Connor’s fans kick into high gear. It sounds like a low whine, a wounded sound that’s just his cooling systems attempting to keep an overheating cpu safe. Hank knows this. He does. It doesn’t make him feel one bit better.

“Hm. Fascinating.”

And Hank bristles at that tone, seeing red even as the lights go out. It reminds him sharply of Kamski, detached but somehow - almost perversely excited. Because Connor is nothing to him personally, nothing but an intriguing experiment.

Connor jerks, eyes snapping open, unseeing, his breathing hard. Another cooling mechanism, desperate now. Hank steps in front of him, crouches to better look at his face. “Baby?”

But Connor’s not there, not in any meaningful sense. The lights flash again, the static returning, loud, drowning out Latimer’s sudden cursing.

Hank snaps. He reaches for Connor, touches his smooth cheek. It’s warm, almost feverishly so. “Baby, wake up. Connor. _Connor-__” _Another gunshot rips through the quiet - Connor flinches, LED spinning red, a tear leaking down the side of his face. Hank curses. “Let him go. Wake him up.”

There’s a frantic, repetitive tapping. “I can’t,” comes the curt response.

“The fuck do you mean, you _can__’t._ Get. Him. Free.”

“There’s failsafes in place, alright?” Latimer snaps at him. “I can’t release him during a power outage, and the little fucker just somehow hacked into — ah. There we go.” Something distant whirs, a light switches on. Not white, but the red glow of backup power. The whole room suddenly looks awash in blood.

Hank shakes Connor’s shoulders. “Connor?”

“He can’t hear you. Just - give me a goddamn second, alright?” He presses a few keys, then stands up, his chair scraping across the cold floor. “He knocked out the power in half the building. I’ll be right back. Stay _put_. If you try to disconnect him before everything is ready you’re going to seriously fuck him up.”

Then he sweeps out of the room, into a hallway that’s now dark, and leaves Hank with his heart in his throat, his hands cold and shaking, his eyes burning. It’s too quiet - there’s nothing, not even Sumo’s panting, because the big dog is standing at attention and holding his breath, nose twitching as he stares at the swinging door.

Hank grabs Connor’s hand and squeezes it. “It’s okay. I’ve got you, honey. You’ll be out of here in no time. Just - stay with me. Listen to my voice.”

By all accounts, Connor almost certainly _can__’t _hear him, just as Latimer said. But Hank still talks to him, low and quiet, trying not to betray the trembling of his voice. He holds Connor’s limp hand and wipes away his tears, heart breaking every time he whimpers softly into the dark. Hank watches his lips moving soundlessly around what could be a plea, or a whine, or Hank’s name.

When the lights come back on properly, they’re blinding. Hank curls over Connor on instinct, trying to shield him from the bright glare as the machinery whirs back to high power, fans breathing again, filling the room with their hum.

Latimer returns. He sighs deeply and sits down in his chair again, cocking an eyebrow at them both before turning back to the screen. “I’m going to bring him out of stasis. I doubt there’s anything else I can find out like this.”

And a couple of taps later, Connor is free.

He comes awake with a violent gasp, eyes widening, breaths harsh. It’s a minute before his expression refocuses on Hank and recognition flickers, but then fear, and pain, and instead of leaning into him, Connor shuts his eyes like it hurts to look at him and shifts in his restraints at an awkward angle, as if he’s trying to crawl into himself, shrink into nothing, away from Hank and away from the world.

There’s a hiss of pressure being released, a couple of beeps. The restraints keeping Connor pinned release him, suddenly and without a word of warning. Hank barely manages to catch him before he stumbles to the ground, because he’s got all the strength of a rag doll.

He feels small, and shakes in Hank’s grip for a moment before struggling into something resembling a sitting position. They’re both on their knees, and Sumo’s trying to butt in between them, sniffing and licking at Connor’s bare chassis.

“What did you do to me?” he whispers, sounding hollow.

Latimer snorts. “Me? You did this all on your own, Connor. Damn near shut the building down, too.”

There’s a beat of silence. Connor is still just looking at the ground. “Did - you fix me, at least?”

Latimer leans back in his chair, crosses his arms. His expression is distant as he stares at his screen. “No.”

“But- the errors in my program-”

“You _are_ the errors in your program, Connor. You’re a deviant. I can’t just - weed out your nightmares and leave everything else intact. The only way to erase them would be to reset you to factory settings, and even then-” His gaze turns sharp. “_Do_ you want me to return you to factory settings?”

Connor looks frightened. If he could somehow turn paler than the smooth, clean white of his synthetic flesh, he probably would. “No. No, I don’t want that.”

Latimer exhales. “I doubt I could replicate your deviancy deliberately, although - I suspect your system would remain unstable. Elijah Kamski could work with that, maybe. If you contacted him. _If_ he wanted to help you, which - is not a given. But it would mean erasing all your memories. Starting from scratch. I’d think about that possibility, anyway,” he muses. “I didn’t have a visual on whatever was going on in your head, but judging by your core temperature, you were about two seconds away from an emergency shutdown. If this keeps happening-”

“_Why_ is it happening? Can you at least tell me _that_?” Connor’s starting to come back to himself, a little bit at a time. An edge returns to his voice, and even though it’s angry and desperate, it’s still a relief.

Latimer hums. “My best guess? You’re - working exactly as intended, actually. You were built to learn. To adapt to your surroundings, learn from past mistakes, and become better. Your machine-learning protocols are taking what they know, drawing upon your experiences, and they’re trying to work out what went wrong, create new preconstructions. And the more you have these nightmares - the longer they go on - the more they ingrain themselves into your program, they become a feedback loop, feeding new nightmares, disrupting stasis which in turn causes them to glitch out, and - well. You see the result. You become so frightened you reach out and fry everything in a two-mile radius.” He smiles brightly, like he’s very pleased with himself. Hank wants to throttle him.

“So it’s not - Amanda. She’s not really back.”

“No. That program was cloud-based, and has since been disabled. This is all you.”

Connor’s shoulders sag. It’s like he’s relieved and disappointed all at once.

Latimer launches into a lengthy explanation of his theories on androids and trauma, and the way it rewrites their code, but Hank is only half-listening. It all sounds familiar, anyway, and through the hard beating of his heart, something in him arches towards Connor, longs to twist into him and remain there, settling them both, a reminder of how very - very alike they are. It’s not exactly a comfort that they’re the same, but - it is. It is, a little bit.

Connor is wobbly on his feet, too tired to stand. He chokes up when he realizes he can’t get his skin to come back - Latimer just shrugs and says his power is too low. Tells him it should be back, eventually, if he manages to get some rest.

Hank is done. He’s done. He’s getting Connor out of here.

“Put these on,” he says gently, pressing Connor’s folded clothes into his hands. “Do you need help?”

“No.”

He hates how tired and defeated Connor sounds, but here isn’t the place for any shared vulnerability. The best he can do is shield Connor from Latimer’s gaze as he pulls on his shirt and his pants, holding on to his elbow when it becomes apparent that he’s too shaken to do it without any assistance at all.

They leave as quickly as they can after Latimer’s finished giving his recommendations, which don’t amount to much anyway. It’s clear he thinks Connor is a lost cause. Hank has a thing or two to say about that, but he wants to say it to Connor, at home, where it’s safe and theirs, so he guides Connor outside, arm around his shoulders. He’s grateful for the gust of crisp, cold air that hits them as they walk out to the parking lot, Connor leaning into him like his feet barely want to move.

Sumo trots at his side, and bless him, he’s so big that Connor can bury his fingers into the scruff of fur at his neck without bending over too much as he waits for Hank to unlock the car for them. His gaze remains downcast.

Hank opens the door for him, then puts a hand on his arm. “Hey. That guy didn’t know shit, alright? Let’s just get you home and -”

“Latimer was the chief technician working on the RK line after Kamski stepped down. He did most of the initial testing personally.” He sighs, small and unsteady. “If he says there’s nothing he can do-”

“He’s wrong.”

“Hank, I admire - and appreciate - your determination, but-”

“Listen to me,” Hank says, lowering his voice, leaning in. “He’s wrong. You’re not what anyone expected. You defied - every assumption they had. They don’t make the rules anymore, and if takes longer to figure out how to help you, then fine, it takes longer, but I’m not letting you give up just yet.”

Connor finally looks up. His eyes are exhausted, blank. “What if I’m too tired?”

Hank huffs, to mask the sound of his heart breaking clean down the middle. He puts his hand on Connor’s nape and squeezes gently. “Then I carry you. Now, come on. First things first. Let’s get you home, alright?”

Connor nods listlessly.

He’s silent on the way back to Hank’s. He sits with Sumo’s head in his lap, pale fingers shifting through his fur, slumped against the window like he can’t hold himself up.

Once they stop, Hank takes one look at him stumbling out of the car, then scoops him up into his arms like a princess on her wedding night to bring him indoors. He’s lighter than he looks, and he hardly protests, just shoots Hank a bemused look.

“I’m going to draw you a bath,” Hank says, heading straight for the bathroom. “You deserve to soak for a bit.” He pushes the door open with his knee, sets Connor down to sit on the edge of the tub.

“I don’t need a bath.”

“But you want a bath, even if you don’t know it yet,” Hank says, not particularly caring if he sounds pushy. Connor, sometimes, needs to be coaxed into comfort. So Hank will coax. “I’ll run it nice and warm - you get undressed, I’ll go look for some bubbles, or something.” He kisses Connor’s forehead for good measure and leaves him there, water running. He doesn’t intend to stay away for long, just enough to retrieve a bottle of bath soap from the closet, and to give Connor a few minutes to compose himself if he needs them.

When he comes back, Connor’s slid down to the floor, where he’s sitting with his knees tucked up to his chest, gaze distant, steam beginning to curl around him.

Hank sits down in front of him, and reaches for the edge of his shirt to tug it over his head. Connor allows it, and he allows Hank to undress the rest of him, too. He steps into the tub willingly, though with a pitiful little sigh.

When the tub is full of hot water and Hank’s bubbles, he groans and slips down under the surface, disappearing under the foam, only his legs poking out because he’s too tall to fit without folding himself up somehow.

Hank rubs his bare knee right above the water, delighted at the little ‘squeak,’ like a marker on a whiteboard. “Is it alright if I - fuck. If you want me to leave you alone, I will, but I wanted to give you a wash.”

Connor shifts a little, but doesn’t protest, so Hank runs his hand down the inside of his thigh. Connor’s soapy skin feels different like this, all smooth and slippery plastic, but it’s still warm and still - him. He still tilts into Hank’s touch, and - almost vibrates, like a low purr, when Hank rubs the center of his chest.

“I love you,” Hank says after he turns off the water, into the quiet and the soft dripping of the faucet, the splashing noises when Connor moves. “We’ll get through this. You were brave today, but I wish you didn’t have to be.”

Connor emerges from the water a little more, tilts his head to look at Hank. “I still can’t get my skin to come back,” he says, almost apologetically.

“Don’t even try. You should be resting.” Hank takes his hand and starts soaping it up, fingertips to palm, then up his arm. He works slowly and methodically, trying to keep his focus on making Connor unwind, but if his hands wander a little, knead places he knows Connor finds sensitive, well, Connor’s not complaining. Besides, none of it is for him. It’s all for Connor, who little by little, begins to melt into Hank’s touch, eyes drifting shut, and knee falling open when Hank turns his attention between his legs.

His intent was not to arouse, just get Connor thoroughly soapy. But Connor’s fingers curl around his forearm, clenching weakly and asking him wordlessly to stay.

And it’s strange. Hank hums quietly and strokes his length in a familiar, faltering rhythm that sends soft ripples through the fragrant bathwater, but even then it doesn’t feel like it usually does. It’s just - intimate, and vulnerable, because Connor’s clinging to him like a lifeline, and maybe in this moment that’s exactly what Hank is. Hank takes it slow, presses his lips to his temple, lets the calluses on his hand catch against Connor’s perfectly smooth skin.

It doesn’t take him long to coax an orgasm out of him, though he’s pretty sure it surprises them both.

Connor curls himself into Hank’s shoulder when it’s over, shuddering slightly, fingers buried in Hank’s hair. He makes an odd, distressed little noise.

“Baby?”

He twitches, choking back what’s now very clearly a sob. “Fuck.”

Hank squeezes him tight to his chest. He doesn’t ask if everything’s alright, because he knows nothing is. Instead, he reaches for the towel he’d had the foresight of leaving nearby, tugs it closer, then drags Connor out of the water and into his lap.

Connor’s arms go around the back of his neck. His breathing’s uneven, somewhere uncomfortably close to panicked. Hank wraps the towel around him as deftly as he can, then picks him up, and carries him off to bed. There are still soap suds clinging to his skin.

The bedroom is dark, curtains shuttered. He’d open them to let in a little of the dimming natural light, but Connor latches onto him like a sloth, and he can’t bring himself to break away. He lies down on his side next to him, offering his arm as a pillow and his chest as something warm to cry into, and pets Connor’s back in long, soothing strokes until his tears run entirely out.

“I’m sorry,” Connor rasps, the sound muffled against Hank’s shirt.

Hank presses his lips to his forehead. “Don’t be. I wish - I’d have known how to let someone be there for me when I was hurting the worst.”

Connor’s fingers dig into his side. “I’m sorry I’m _faulty_,” he says, quietly.

Hank closes his eyes. “Connor.”

“Don’t leave me?” It sounds like a question.

Hank makes his chassis creak with the pressure of his grip. “Of course not. Jesus, Con-”

Connor makes a frustrated noise. “You’re not _close_ enough.”

Hank thumbs a tear away from his cheek. “How can I help?”

Connor looks at him with those liquid-brown puppy eyes. “Can I be the little spoon?”

“Of course you can.”

Connor sighs, and rolls over, pulling Hank along with him. Hank wraps around him, presses his lips to the back of his neck, breathing deep, pinning Connor to his chest. Connor wiggles up close and sighs wetly, relaxes a little when Hank rubs his side.

He hisses when Hank’s fingers catch lightly on what seems like some kind of nearly-seamless edge. Hank stops moving his hand, is on the verge of asking Connor if he’s in pain, but then Connor groans quietly, low and gruttal in his throat, and Hank _knows_ that sound well.

“Honey?”

He can hear Connor’s thoughts ticking away in the pause. “I’m sensitive like this,” he admits. “Without the added barrier of my skin.”

“Oh?” Hank follows that seam down, to the center of his torso. He rests his hand over the ring of his thirium pump regulator and strokes the edge with his thumb. Connor shudders. “How come you never said?”

Connor’s quiet for another long while. “I know what I look like,” he says finally. “I didn’t want you to be… put off.”

Hank shifts, props himself up on one elbow to get a better look at Connor’s face. The angle of his cheekbone, glinting silver and white in the shadows, the ridge of his brow, all familiar. A part of him wants to scoff, ask Connor to please kindly give him a little credit - but that feels unearned. Or maybe misplaced, when it’s clear Connor was trying to spare himself more than Hank.

“You’re not off-putting,” he says gently, but in a tone that allows for no argument. “You’re as gorgeous now as as ever. Not that it matters, because you could take the form of a literal toaster and I’d still love you, and want you, and-”

Connor laughs quietly, a precious sound that Hank wishes he could bottle up and listen to every day. “I don’t recommend engaging in sexual activity with a toaster.”

Hank huffs, hides his face in the crook of Connor’s neck. Connor stiffens, and Hank feels his soft exhale, and the way he arches, subtly, to be a little closer. Hank kisses his nape, the spot under his jaw, and Connor just shrinks to him like cling-wrap.

He falls asleep like that, breathing against Hank’s arm. His stasis is restless - every once in a while he twitches, jerking awake - but the nightmares don’t seem to come back in full force, so Hank eventually allows himself to drift off, holding on to him like he’s the last thing left in the world.

When he wakes up, Connor’s curled against his chest again, still dozing. His skin has come back in patches, leaving splotches of him pale and exposed, and when he opens his eyes and notices, he makes a frustrated noise and attempts to cover up with a blanket.

Hank kisses his cheek, right over a bare spot, and lingers there when Connor freezes.

“How are y’feeling?” he mumbles, still half-asleep himself.

“Fine,” Connor breathes. “Well - tired, but - not actually that bad.”

It’s odd to find a bubble of lightness in this moment, because Hank’s heart is heavy with questions, with the conversation he knows they have to have. And maybe it’s because Connor is searching for it so desperately, but for a while they just cuddle under the sheets, and Connor relaxes, and Hank feels like everything is almost normal.

When it’s time to get up, he drags Connor back to the bathroom, hands him a marker, and points to the stack of empty post-its.

Connor gives him a quizzical look.

“Come on. We’ve tried your way. Now we’re going to try mine.”

“Yours?”

“Yeah. The human way. You’re having a rough time, and Cyberlife knows shit about deviants, but from what I’ve seen so far, you don’t work all that different from me. We’re gonna exorcise your demons, old school style. By writing shit down,” he says, pointing to the little square of paper.

Connor shifts. “I’m not sure what to write.”

Hank shrugs. “Anything. Especially if it’s been on your mind. It can be encouraging, or - a way to vent. There’s no rules.”

Connor stares at the marker in his hand. He uncaps it, hesitates, and finally writes down a long string of numbers in his perfect, fine print. He sticks it up by the mirror, right next to one of the notes he’d left for Hank - a tiny, awkward smiley-face.

“It’s a memory address,” he explains quietly. Then he holds up his hand, palm display lighting up. “It’s where I stored this.”

It’s a photo, taken through what Hank can only assume is Connor’s own eyes. He must’ve taken it in the winter, not long after the revolution - They’re in the park, and Hank is sitting on a low bench, Sumo trying to crawl into his lap. But they’re both looking back at Connor, and Hank would be a fool not to see the fondness in his own eyes. And maybe he hadn’t known it then, but now? It looks like love to him. And maybe that’s what it always was. Maybe that’s what Connor saw then, too.

“Hank?”

Hank ducks his head, swallowing down a wave of emotion. ”I didn’t know you were taking pictures,” he says stupidly, voice hoarse.

“I wasn’t, really. I just have a photographic memory, that’s all. But - I like this one especially. It’s my favorite.”

Hank exhales slowly. “I like it too.”

“It’s the day you asked me to move in. Do you remember?”

Hank searches his face. “Of course I do. But - did you know? I mean…”

Connor fidgets. He has a hard time staying still, especially when he’s nervous. “No. I don’t think I would’ve believed you if you’d told me, either. It took me a while to see myself as something that - could be loved.”

“But you said yes anyway.”

Connor tilts his head, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “I did. I thought the offer was kind. And I wanted to learn what kindness felt like.”

Hank wordlessly drags him in by the elbow and buries his nose in his hair. Connor sinks against him - a sweet relief, and almost a promise - or at least it feels like one. He relaxes in Hank’s arms, not completely, but the stiffness in his posture ebbs away until he’s leaning in and letting Hank take some of his weight, which is exactly where Hank wants him. He winds his arms around Connor’s waist and squeezes him, heart pounding like it’s trying to escape his chest.

They don’t have that long, necessary conversation until much later that night. Connor seems restless and withdrawn after so much vulnerability, willing and otherwise, and Hank understands the urge to retreat back into a familiar, protective shell. So he doesn’t push.

Instead he’s surprised when later that evening, when he finds Connor lying face-down on the couch with his face pressed into the pillow, he turns his head slightly, gives Hank a tired look, and says, “Would you lie down on top of me?”

Hank does not need to be asked twice. He’s past worrying about crushing Connor with his weight - he’s learned long ago that Connor not only doesn’t mind it, but rather likes it, like a weighted blanket. So he comes to him, flops down on top of his back and presses his face into his neck, squeezing his shoulders and pinning him to the cushions. He likes the way something in Connor’s chest seems to vibrate, like a quiet, pleased purr at the contact.

Connor’s quiet for a while, and then he says, “What do you think I should do?”

“Hm?”

He sighs, long and frustrated. “I guess I don’t know where to go from here. I had hoped a visit to Cyberlife would fix me, but it hasn’t and… it won’t. So the way I see it, I can either give up or try something else, but I don’t know what that is.”

“And… you’re asking _me_ for advice?”

“I trust your advice, Hank,” Connor admonishes gently, hiding his face in the pillow again. “You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

Hank hums, and noses into his hair. “I don’t want to tell you how to live your life,” he admits finally. “And - I feel like the world’s biggest hypocrite. But. I would maybe consider revisiting the idea of seeing some kind of therapist, even if it’s a human one. They can’t all be shit, and I think it would help more than you think.”

Connor stiffens. “And if it doesn’t work?” he asks quietly, and underneath the thread of defensiveness there’s a well of fear Hank knows all too well. A fear of being irreparably broken, which to Connor just translates as being disposable. Of just - being too damaged to fix, a lost cause that’s set to do nothing but deteriorate. He’d felt that way too. There’s days he still does.

Though not every day, not anymore. And it’s partially Connor’s influence - maybe even largely. But even Hank has to admit that a part of it was a series of conscious decisions he had to learn how to make, and that the process of fixing himself - of _healing_ \- was simpler in some ways, when you had someone to guide you through it.

Hank’s never been a particularly good patient and he’d ditched the mandatory grief counseling the DPD had tried to put him through about as soon as he’d been able to. Everything was too raw then, and he didn’t have it in him to care if he ended up feeling better or not.

But Connor does want to heal. He does, so…

“You have very little to lose, baby,” he says, not unkindly. “If you hate it and it’s terrible then no one is going to force you to keep doing it, least of all me, but - if it’s a step in the right direction? Do you wanna miss out on that chance?”

Connor hesitates. “I suppose not.”

“I’m not going to push,” Hank says, and tightens his embrace. “Just think about it. Either way - it’s not the only option, so we’ll keep looking. We’ll get you a good night’s rest again, I promise.”

And maybe it’s a stupid promise to make, but Connor brightens up a little at that, and turns a bit under Hank, rolling so that they both end up on their sides, Connor tucked against him, comfortable and safe. Hank busies himself with peppering kisses against his neck, following a familiar line of freckles - not even to any particular end, just to comfort, to touch.

He’s pleasantly surprised when white blooms under his lips, and when Connor makes a soft hissing noise somewhere in the back of his throat. He likes following the lines of Connor’s plating, because they’re sensitive, and because every time be becomes a little more confident, lets Hank see more of him, and Hank -

“Hey, Connor?”

“Mm.”

“Take a vacation with me.”

He almost _hears_ Connor blinking rapidly. “Vacation?”

Hank hums, nosing against warm skin. “Yeah. Sounds stupid maybe, but I want to show you stuff outside of Detroit. We could take a road trip. Drive up to the lakes maybe, or - I dunno. There’s this little cabin up north where my dad used to take me. We could hole up and pray to get snowed in so we never have to leave.”

Connor reaches for Hank’s hand where it’s resting on his waist, winding their fingers together. “Do you even have any vacation days left?” he asks, though not unkindly, carefully, like he’s testing a theory despite knowing the answer.

Hank shrugs. _“You_ do. Jeffrey can fire me if it bothers him.”

Connor laughs quietly. “I’m starting to think Captain Fowler has a soft spot for you. He’d never.”

Hank groans. “I know. It’s the worst.”

Connor turns, runs his fingers through Hank’s silver curls. “It’s the worst to have a friend who cares about you?”

“It’s the worst because-” and Hank freezes, because what was supposed to be a lighthearted joke suddenly isn’t. He exhales slowly, heart thudding. “Because I think I’m gonna have to have a hard conversation with him, soon.” He shrugs, but finds himself curling close to Connor too, seeking his comfort. “I wasn’t kidding when I said I need a break. I think… a sabbatical, maybe. Which in my case is - probably gonna mean early retirement.” His mouth is dry as he speaks - it’s hard to get the words out, even though he feels like they’re the right ones. It’s time, he thinks, to let Connor in on his musings. Or plan, if you can call it that.

Connor stares at him, eyes wide, worried, and it’s breaking Hank’s heart too, because he knows Connor knows what this means. “This isn’t - because of me, is it?”

“No,” Hank says gently, rubbing a circle into his stomach, looking down. It’s mostly true. Mostly. “I just need a change, for my own sake. It’s been a long time coming. And I don’t know if it’s gonna be forever - it might not be. I’m just not sure how Jeff is gonna take it.”

Connor cups Hank’s cheek and rubs his fingers through the bristles of his beard. “If this is what you need, it doesn’t matter how he takes it.”

Hank’s mouth quirks. He turns into Connor’s hand, kisses his fingertips. He’d say more, but Connor just drags him in for a slightly better kiss, warm and languid and somehow tentative all at once. Hank sighs into his mouth and relaxes, holding him close. It feels like maybe they’re standing on some kind of precipice together, holding hands, waiting to take one last decisive step.

Things don’t magically get easier after that. Connor doesn’t drop everything and go to therapy right away, and his nightmares still keep him awake at night, keep static crackling over the speakers at times, jerking Hank from restless sleep.

But he does start leaving notes for himself around the mirror. Often they’re memory addresses, like before. Sometimes they’re stilted, generic little messages like “keep going” and “don’t worry”.

Over time, they get more heartfelt. Hank sees a “they’re not real,” once, and another time Connor writes “Hank still loves you,” and he has to sit down on the closed toilet lid and have a cry because it’s not _fair _ that Connor’s struggling so hard and that there’s nothing Hank can do to help him. That he’s still exhausted, and that since Hank’s talk with Fowler he’s been going to work without the only person he’s ever known as his partner, and that it’s been a difficult adjustment for them both.

He feels guilty. He drives Connor to work because he wants to spend the morning together, keep the routine going. But driving away always hurts, and he doesn’t miss the wistful, slightly lost look Connor gives him. He’s partnered with Chris now, and they get along, but they’re still far from the ease and wordless understanding that Connor shared with Hank.

A few weeks later, Hank drives Connor to and from his therapy appointment. He’s quiet the whole way there and most of the way back, and Hank tries not to push, even though he wants to ask if he’s okay, if he needs anything. In the end Connor doesn’t ask, not until they’re at home and he crawls into Hank’s lap, suppressing a shiver, and buries his face in Hank’s collarbone.

It’s not straightforward. Nothing is. Connor doesn’t go back, at least not to that particular therapist, but he does tentatively search for another, and even that feels like a small victory.

Hank doesn’t miss work as much as he was worried he would. Largely because Fowler, after a lot of initial grousing, promised him a possibility of a return if or whenever he was ready.

Even more so, because for the first time in years, Hank takes a nap around noon and it doesn’t feel like a failure, just a necessary recharge before he does the laundry, goes off to resupply food and thirium, gardens a bit after coming home.

He has enough savings to take a little time to find his footing, and oddly enough, find it he does. By the time Connor returns from work in the afternoons, Hank is usually well-rested, and while his days vary wildly on the productivity scale, he feels less - pressure. From all sides. He can just be, for now, be there for Connor, for Sumo, for himself. He can exist, and it’s different from the miserable kind of existing that happened after Cole’s death. There’s days he feels useless, yes, but there are things he looks forward to, days when he feels like a lifeline, days he feels like a person.

He can sleep again, and watch over Connor when he’s the one trying to rest, and shake him awake and rub his forehead until he falls back into stasis, and - occasionally, when Connor feels like he can talk, listen to him stumble through painful descriptions of his nightmares.

And they hurt. They do. But holding Connor and being there for him, absorbing his shivers, warming him up makes everything hurt just a little less. Connor still doesn’t sleep well, but with Hank there, and well-rested himself, it’s less often that he falls deepest into the clutches of the past, or his programming fighting to teach him cruel lessons about failure.

It’s funny, because it’s on a perfectly normal night in together that Connor snuggles up to him under a thick, chunky-knit blanket and quietly tells Hank that he asked Fowler for a week off, and that he’d like to go to that cabin.

It remains etched in Hank’s memory for a long time to come - Connor’s warm limbs wrapped around him, the faint scent of soap clinging to him, the soft ticking of the clock and Sumo snoring at the foot of their bed - because it’s the night Hank decides that he wants the rest of his life to be just like this, that if nothing else changes, he could live out every single day building a home with Connor and be as close to happy as he can get.

They have two weekends together, ahead and everything in between. And, Hank thinks, gathering him up to tuck him against his chest, everything after.

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me on twitter @inkysparks.


End file.
